The sun was just starting to set outside, casting the palace in orange light. Servants stood on ladders lighting the candles in sconces on the walls, filling the halls with dim light for when the sun dipped below the horizon. Across the sky, the pair of moons hung low, ready to rise once darkness fell.

Wil wore a fine but plain jacket over a clean shirt and trousers. He’d left most of his weapons in his flat—he felt naked without them—but kept a single dagger sheathed at his hip. His fingers drummed on its hilt as he walked through the halls.

The palace’s dining room was huge, meant to accommodate large parties of courtiers and emissaries, but this evening it was just Lysander and Natalia seated at one end of the long, polished wood table. Before them was an array of dishes; broiled bird stuffed with sprigs of spices, vegetables from the palace gardens, fluffy, steaming chunks of bread.

“Ah, there he is,” the queen said as he entered, lifting a hand to gesture Wil toward her. Servants set a place for him at the table before he even reached his adopted parents, scurrying among the quiet clatter of dishes and cutlery.

“You finally decided to join us,” said the king, lifting his eyes from his plate. Wil leaned forward to fill his own plate with food, his stomach rumbling.

I did promise Mother I would, Wil signed with his free hand. He sat with his plate of food, and the family ate.

Wil sat straight-backed in his chair, eating with the same kind of decorum that the queen had instilled in him growing up, before he’d been sent to the Venandi—the witch hunters’ order. He remembered her sitting with him at this very table, schooling him in proper etiquette while his tutors taught him literature and science. He may not be a royal by blood, she always said, but he would receive the education of one.

There was another burning in the small square the other day, Wil signed, setting his cutlery down on the table.

“We are aware,” Lysander said shortly.

“A rebel?” the queen asked.

Wil nodded. Probably.

“Good,” said the king, still nudging his fork at his food. “That’ll dissuade the witches in the city from misbehaving. The Nasiri used to mount witches’ heads on pikes on Rathal’s palace walls, did you know that?”

The queen scoffed. “Let’s not talk about such macabre things at supper, Lysander.”

“Maybe we should start doing that,” the king said, ignoring his wife. “It might scare the witches away from Ennore”—he glanced at Wil—“but then what would be the point of you?”

Wil bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face from betraying the anger that flared in him. The Venandi have protected the Serinese crown for generations, Wil signed. Without us, rebels would roam around the country with no fear.

“If they feared you, boy, they wouldn’t keep raiding outposts and castles, would they? Don’t be an idiot.”

Wil frowned and looked down at his plate of food, half eaten. His father had a point. People feared Wil, certainly, and they feared the Venandi, but Wil was only one man, the witch hunters’ order an old but small group. And there were countless rebels and witch sympathizers. Clearly, for them, the reward of getting the best of their conquerors outweighed the risk.

I apologize, he signed. I didn’t mean to be rude.

The queen reached forward and rested a hand on his arm, making him look at her. “It’s fine, my dear,” she said.

Wil sighed and lowered his gaze again to pick up his cutlery and continue his meal. He couldn’t hear the king, but his instincts told him Lysander was grumbling something unkingly under his breath. The man wasn’t the type to be warm and fatherly, and Wil admonished himself; he knew better than to expect Lysander to be anyone other than who he was.

When Wil lifted his eyes to Lysander’s again, the king was scowling. “You must be vigilant with these rebels. They’re savages with no sense of the law,” he said. “We must crush them like the insects they are.

“I imagine if they’d been the ones to find you when you were an infant, they’d have drowned you in the river,” Lysander continued. “You should count yourself lucky that we chose to take you in and make something of your life.”

Wil nodded. I’m grateful, Father, he signed.

“Then show it by doing the job you were raised to do,” Lysander snapped.

The king and queen of Serin had seen the poor, helpless half witch infant and taken him in, choosing to raise the boy as their own since their efforts at producing an heir proved fruitless.

Wil couldn’t help but think that that moment of selflessness twenty-four years ago was the only thing standing between him and a silver collar. Between him and the pyre and the stake.