We walk until the halls widen and the first Discord members appear—a runner heading somewhere, a woman carrying ledgers.
I catch the runner's arm as he passes. "Find Renan. Tell him to meet us at War's guest chambers. Now."
He nods and disappears down a side corridor.
Iowyn is watching me when I turn back, damp hair curling around her face. Still processing. Still rearranging.
"Ready?" I ask.
"For what?"
"To watch me irritate a War God."
The water is still on my skin when we enter War's chambers.
Not literally. I dried. I dressed. I watched her dress—watched her pull fabric over skin I had my hands on—and I didn't drag her back into the bath and finish what I started.
Progress.
Renan is already here. He's sprawled across one of Caius's chairs, boots on the armrest, and when he sees us enter together, his eyebrows climb. His mouth opens.
"Don't," I say.
His mouth closes. The grin stays. Wide. Delighted. The bastard can smell trouble, and he likes the scent.
Iowyn moves past me into the room, and my brain splits down the middle. Half of it notes the layout—Caius standing by the window, Renan to the left, two exits, fire in the hearth. The other half notes she's four steps away from me and Caius is looking at her.
Not wrong. Not inappropriate. He's War; she's a new variable in his space. Of course he's looking.
I still want to step between them. Put my hand on the back of her neck. Make it clear that if he keeps looking, I'll—
"Discord." Caius's voice is low and rough. Centuries of shouting over battlefields. "You're late."
"I was busy."
"Were you." His eyes move to Iowyn. Stay there. His head tilts one way, then the other, like he's trying to get a better angle on something confusing. "You brought someone. She's standing very still. Excellent posture—I noticed immediately." He looks at me. Back at her. At me again. "Is she a problem? I can kill her. It's not an inconvenience. I'm already standing."
"She's not a problem."
"Are you sure?" He pats his hip. "I brought my gladius. I bring it everywhere. Renan, you've seen it. Tell him I have it."
"He has it," Renan says, grinning.
"See? So if she's a problem—"
"She's not a problem, Caius."
He considers this. Nods slowly. "Good. I wasn't looking forward to the cleanup. Blood on marble gets in the grooves. You have to scrub." His nose wrinkles. "I don't like scrubbing. It's beneath me. Not morally—physically. I have to bend down and my knees make sounds now. Unpleasant sounds." He stops, refocuses. "Why is her hair damp?"
"It's not damp."
"It looks damp. The light is doing something." He squints at Iowyn, then shakes his head. "No. You're right. It's dry. Iwas looking at it wrong." He adjusts his stance—wider, more commanding—and the tangent ends as abruptly as it started. "Coin called the Concord. Faith agreed within the hour. We convene at sundown tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
My hand flexes at my side. I can still feel the heat of her skin under my palms. The way she shivered when I washed the soap from her hair, head tipped back, throat exposed. Tomorrow I have to sit across from Senna and pretend I'm not—
Iowyn shifts her weight. The floorboard creaks.
