Gareth’s cab rolled to a stop in front of a squat building off the public square. Climbing out, he carefully avoided the mud puddles pooling over the uneven cobblestone, leftover from the morning’s rain. The air was still crisp, and Gareth paused to breathe it in, eyeing the building in front of him. It reminded him of Unity’s prison, only with more windows.

The cab driver didn’t wait for Gareth to move before taking off, the wheels of his carriage kicking mud and rainwater up Gareth’s trousers.

“Wonderful,” Gareth groaned, surveying the damage before starting up the building steps.

He left his annoyance at the door, which was opened for him by a valet, and stepped into a foyer that smelled of leather, cologne, and wealth. It reminded Gareth of his father’s old study. The furniture was configured into some sort of waiting room, and glossy, frosted-paneled doorways led deeper into the building. Off to the side, a man stood behind a podium, the emblem on his suit matching the one engraved into the wall.

“Are you a member here, sir?” the man asked. He took in the caked mud on Gareth’s trousers with a sour expression.

Behind him stood a wide archway. A woman’s laugh drifted through it from deeper inside, but when Gareth tried to peek past the man, all he could see was a hazily lit hall, full of dust particles dancing in and out of beams of light. It was still and quiet, just like this foyer.

He finally knew where he was, at least. “This is a social club,” he guessed.

“Yes. If you’re not already a member—,”

“I think my sister is— Moira Ranulf. She asked me to meet her here,” Gareth said.

“Oh! Of course, Mr. Ranulf, I’m terribly sorry. I hadn’t known to expect you. Please, follow me.”

He led Gareth down the hallway behind him. Paneled windows on one side overlooked the busy street, but the other was covered with portraits of serious-looking men— all, Gareth noticed, human. He stopped short when they passed a face quite familiar to him. It was his own father, sneering down at them over the top of his glasses. Gareth gawked at the word “Founder” beneath his father’s name.

“He never told me about this place,” Gareth said to the host, who’d slowed when Gareth did. “Where are we?”

“The Metharow Club, founded by your father and several others to create a place for humans with Unity connections to gather, unwind, and form social connections. Your sister has been a member since she was first appointed as Representative.”

The host led Gareth down a few more hallways, then up a set of stairs. They passed a well-dressed group playing billiards in a wide, sunlit room. The group eyed Gareth as he passed, and Gareth matched their stares. Finally, the host stopped in front of a private office. He knocked, and Moira called them in.

“Gareth!” she said when she saw them, “There you are. Come in, come in.”

Gareth did, slipping into the cozy office and settling in the seat across from Moira. “This place came as a surprise,” he said as Moira shut the door behind him.

“I’m sure I’ve invited you here before.”

“You haven’t.”

“Oh,” Moira said. “Well, you’re here now. What do you think of the place?”

“A human-exclusive club, Moira? It seems a bit…old-fashioned.”

Moira shrugged. “In a world that’s constantly changing, it’s nice to have something that stays the same.”

Yes, Gareth felt certain this place hadn’t changed since its founding. He didn’t believe that was a good thing. “Why did you want to see me?" he asked. "Your letter said it was important. Does it have to do with Illyon?”

“What have you heard about that?”

“A lot,” Gareth said. “You have to know how the gossip’s flying.”

Moira sighed. “And probably all wrong. I imagine the curiosity is killing you; would you like me to tell you what happened?”

Surprised and eager, Gareth nodded. Moira never told him things when she could just as easily keep them to herself.

“Here’s the truth of it: the King of Alfheim was visiting Illyon on a diplomatic trip when a team of orinians stole him out from under the noses of Illyon’s leaders.”

Gareth’s mouth fell open. “Orinians? Surely they wouldn’t risk—,”

“And yet, surely they did. The Nochdvor’s eyewitness accounts were quite damning. Alfheim wants war, of course,” Moira said, in the same tone she used to discuss dinner plans. “Fortunately, it’s not up to them. Our plan is to send a team of diplomats to Orean to negotiate Nochdvor’s return. If Orean has nothing to hide, then they will surely cooperate.”

“And if they don’t?”

Moira shrugged. “Then we’ll let Alfheim have its war. Rheamarie Nochdvor won’t be appeased until she either has her father back or has shed enough blood to account for it.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Gareth asked.

Moira gave Gareth a searching look before continuing, her expression unreadable. “We would like you to be on the team, Gareth.”

Gareth laughed, but Moira didn’t laugh with him. “It took you fifty years to develop a sense of humor, Moira?”

“This is no joke.”

“What?” Gareth stood, feeling his heart sink to the soles of his shoes. “Why me? I’m not a diplomat! I’m rubbish at navigating careful situations, you know that!”

“Everyone on this team brings different experiences,” Moira said. “You may not be the perfect diplomat, but you have your merits. Your knowledge of Orean and its customs will be invaluable, and the fact that we would send the brother of a Unity Representative on this mission tells Orean we have faith they will behave civilly.”

“So I’m a pawn.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Gareth, please. We’ll have people to handle the negotiations, and the team will have heavy security, so you’ll be quite safe. I promise, no harm will come to you. Does this really sound so bad?”

“But—,”

“You said you were loyal to Unity, remember? We need you for this.”

“I —,”

“We all have duties we must perform. I’ve been doing mine for years, filling father’s position on the council, and now it’s your turn. Think of it this way: you’ll get to be a part of the story for once, instead of just reading them. I know it’ll be hard leaving Ofelia, but think of the tale you’ll get to tell her— you’ll prevent a war, rescue a king. You’ll be a real-life Egil.”

Gareth stared down at his hands. He did want that. He wanted to be someone Ofelia could look up to, and if he passed on this opportunity out of fear, he wouldn’t be. But if Orean really did kidnap a Unity King, is it so far a stretch to think they might use violence against whoever Unity sent their way?

He sighed. “Can I have time to think about it?”

“The first team meeting is tomorrow, so make your decision before then. Talk it over with Isobel, if you must, and I’ll send you more information later.”

“Thank you, Moira.”

“You’re welcome, Gareth. That’s enough of that, now, don’t you think? Come, let me show you the rest of the club. You’re eligible for membership, you know.”

The next night, Gareth hesitated outside a stately old manor, brightly illuminated against the darkening sky and standing alone on a steep hill. Through the front room window, a dark silhouette paced back and forth in agitation.

In that house waited Unity’s diplomatic team.

After hearing Moira’s proposal, Isobel had advised against going. Gareth had thought it over, and he’d agreed. But when they went out to dinner, his mind had changed.

At the restaurant, they’d been placed beside three orinians. Gareth had seen them all before — they were staying at a hotel near Gareth’s rented flat — but watching them talk, laugh, and enjoy their evening made Gareth fear for them and for Orean. He didn’t know what would come of Unity’s mission, but if he could help keep it from coming to conflict, he would.

Only, now that he was here, he hesitated again.

“You’re not lost,” a quiet voice behind him said. Gareth turned to see a woman with apple-red hair standing on the walkway. A sword hung at one of her hips, a gun at the other. Gareth took a step back. Everything about the woman was aggressive— her stance, her frown, and her brows, furrowed over deep-set eyes.

A feather-textured pattern spiraled across her pale skin. She was marionite— another one of Calaidia's human races, as common in Gallontea as alfar or sapiens. When she spoke, she caught a glimpse of two sharp canines on each side.

“Pardon?” Gareth asked, remembering his manners.

“You’re here for the meeting?” she asked in her gentle, lilting voice. It didn't suit her, not with her sharp gaze and armed person. Not with the scars on her skin— skin that Gareth could see much of thanks to her scandalously revealing evening blouse, which was sleeveless past her shoulders.

“I am.”

The woman beckoned him to follow, then started up the drive. “Unity wants to keep our mission secret. Secrets are hard to keep on the island, so we had to meet here.” She sighed and glanced back at Gareth. “I told them it’s too close to Greysdale. One wrong turn and you’re a dead body in a dark alley somewhere.”

The way she emphasized you’re made Gareth think she meant him, specifically.

“Are you coming, or what?” she asked. “They won’t wait all evening.”

Gareth followed, keeping a careful distance. “You’re right, thank you. My name is Gareth Ranulf. What’s yours?”

The woman seemed to think for a moment before saying, “Evelyne Corscia.”

Something about the challenging look she gave him made Gareth shiver. She silently dared him to contradict her.

At the door, Evelyne barged inside without knocking, nearly running into a tall, willowy dryad in the foyer. “Hey! Watch — why, Ms. Corscia, there you are! And Mr. Ranulf, I presume. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Gareth barely got a chance to look around before the man was ushering him into a dining room filled with people. He settled in the first open seat, conscious of everyone’s eyes on him. Evelyne sat further down the table, beside a ruffled, sleepy looking man that leaned over and whispered something to her. She nodded and gave him a dry smile in return.

Great. Not only was Gareth the last one in, but everyone else already knew each other.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Gareth said to the man at the head of the table. His face was bright red, he knew. He wore his embarrassment easily, and that embarrassment worsened when he recognized the man as the alfar from last week, the Nochdvor royal that had been with the Princess. His new team Captain.

The alfar waved him off. “You’re barely late; everyone else was just early.”

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” the dryad from the foyer asked. “Ms. Corscia said people might. But the Magistrates told us not to meet on the island and I knew my dining room would seat us all comfortably, so I volunteered—,”

“Comfortably,” the dragon crouched at the other end of the table said with a scoff. Only, it didn’t sound like she was saying anything — not in the way that humans say things. It was the sound you’d get from filling a glass jar with rocks and shaking it, only lower and deeper. Her voice was an avalanche.

Gareth understood her, though. Everyone did. Given how different a dragon’s anatomy was from the other two species, it followed that their tracheal structure would differ as well. The performance of autopsies had only been legal for a hundred years or so, so scientists were still studying just how different, but dragons couldn’t speak like the other species. They simply couldn’t make the same sounds.

They had to learn the other species’ language and the other species had to learn theirs — that way, both could understand and respond to what the other was saying. The system worked, but it had taken them a shamefully long time and far too many lost lives to reach this understanding.

The dragon crouched low to the ground, the only way she could fit in the low-ceilinged room. As she spoke, the iridescent orange feathers that ran along the side of her face flared out. They continued down her neck and tail, their color warning of danger. The rest of her body was covered in pale blue scales and knotted with old scars.

“We’ll secure better for next time,” Nochdvor promised, so confident that the dragon settled down without further complaint. “Let's start so we can all be on our ways sooner. Mr. Ochoa?”

“Yes, of course,” the dryad said, shifting through a stack of papers. He finally managed to pull out a single sheet, triumphant. “Roll call.”

While Ochoa led the roll call, Gareth frantically tried to memorize names. Evelyne, he knew, and now Eresh Ochoa and Leandros Nochdvor. A nympherai woman sat across from Gareth, her hair slicked back and her skin spotted with opalescent scales— Trinity Jones, her name was. She was another diplomat, along with Cathwright, the dragon.

The man beside Evelyne was called Ivor. He was team security, same as her. He seemed disinterested in the meeting, tipping back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. When Mr. Ochoa called his name, he gave a lazy wave.

Gareth eyed him, curious as to what kind of security this man meant to provide. Ivor caught his gaze, and Gareth felt another chill run through him.

A darkness lurked behind the man’s eyes, a darkness born of depravity and apathy. It was a darkness Gareth had learned to recognize from his father, a man whose vices and cruelty were without limit. With Ivor, as with Gareth’s father, the darkness disappeared like breath upon a window pane when the man smiled.

Gareth saw an echo of it within Evelyne too, and every member of the security team at this table. He spent the rest of the meeting stealing glances. All were the same sort of disconcerting— meeting any one of their gazes felt like bugs crawling over skin and knife point pressed to your neck.

It didn’t escape Gareth’s notice that there was nearly as much security as there were diplomats, an ill omen for how Unity expected this mission to go.

Ochoa, who’d introduced himself as the Unity overseer for the mission, finished his introductions quickly. When he was done, Nochdvor spoke.

“I’ll be leading this expedition,” he said. “As you likely all know by now, I’m the missing King’s nephew, so I have more than an impartial interest in the outcome of this mission. I tell you this in the spirit of disclosure; I won't let family ties get in the way of this team’s safety and attaining our goal – getting the King back peacefully.

“We’re a small team, with five diplomats— including myself— and five support team members, so travel will be light. You’re allowed two bags and no more. You’ll all be expected to contribute, whether that be by cooking, pitching tents, or gathering firewood. If anyone has a problem with that, you can see me after the meeting,” Leandros explained, his tone making it very clear that he would not, in fact, tolerate any argument.

“Evelyne Corscia will be our head of security. Ms. Corscia, do you have anything you’d like to add?”

Evelyne raised a thin eyebrow. “No.”

“We have some time before we can leave for Orean,” Leandros said. “We’re waiting on one final team member to arrive. In the meantime, relax. We’ll contact you when we have more information. For now, meeting adjourned.”