Inside a private telephone box, Gareth Ranulf spun on his stool, the phone's receiver held to his ear. “Wonderful. I'll see you soon, dear,” he said, listening to the tinny reply before adding, “Yes, ideally with Moira in tow, but you know how she can be. It seems there's some sort of event happening on the island today. Knowing her, she'll need to stay.”

Through the phone box's glossy windows, Gareth watched strangers hurry past — more than he would've expected from Unity on a Saturday. There were secretaries and politicians, socialites and more than the usual number of reporters. A group of the latter stopped in front of Gareth's phone box, the dragon in their midst sitting her scaled bulk right in front of his door. Gareth frowned, rapped on the glass to get her attention, and nearly missed his wife's reply.

“Say that again?” he asked, swiveling back around to face the transmitter. “Yes, I'll tell her. Isobel, I have to let you go. It seems I'm trapped in my phone box. No, no, it's nothing to worry about. I'll meet up with you and Ofelia on the hour, alright? I love you, Boop.”

Honestly, what sort of person went around blocking phone boxes without first checking whether anyone was inside? Gareth knocked on the glass again, deciding to give this dragon a piece of his mind. But when that didn't get her attention, he shoved the door open until it bumped her blue flank. Finally, she looked back, her eyes widening when she noticed Gareth. “My apologies,” she rumbled, shuffling aside.

Gareth's bluster left him all at once. “No, no, don't even mention it! I should be the one apologizing — I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation. Terribly sorry.”

When the dragon turned her attention back to her companions, Gareth paused to listen in, hoping for clues to why the island was so busy. “I’m not surprised by any of this,” one reporter was saying. “The royal family has another scandal every few decades. We were overdue.”

Gareth pretended to tie his boot laces, intrigued. Which royal family could he mean? There were several options: of the six provinces under Unity's banner, four of them had reigning monarchs. The Sheman royal family in the north dominated for petty drama, but Ejera in the west had seen the most recent political upheaval.

“Be serious, Albrecht,” said another. “Whatever happened this time, it's nothing to joke about. Both the princess and prince came here today in person.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” the man called Albrecht asked.

“No one’s seen the prince in sixty years,” said the alfar girl beside Gareth’s dragon friend. She looked younger than the others, with piercings along her ears and strawberry-blonde hair that she’d braided out of her face. Knowing how alfar biology worked, though, she may well have been the oldest of the group. “Not since Histrios. It's strange. You used to hear his name everywhere — he worked with the Oracle of Damael, negotiated the first ever trade agreements with the oanai, even uncovered the coup in Alfheim. But then he just vanished.”

As much as he wished to, Gareth couldn’t listen forever. His heart beat fast in his chest as he stepped out onto Unity's cobbled footpaths. Leandros Nochdvor! Here! The questions Gareth would ask, if he caught a moment alone with the man. Maybe if Gareth asked nicely, his sister would arrange an introduction. His path led him between grand old buildings, with dahlias, taurel, and other late summer blooms lining the way. Above his head, reds and oranges crept along the edges of crisp green leaves, not quite ready to fall. Normally, Gareth hated this time of year, but he was so giddy now that he found he didn't mind it — didn't mind being dragged to Gallontea for the season, even.

This was the time of year when people looked back on what they had, then forward to what they may yet get. It was a time of celebration and relief, but for Gareth, it was a season of responsibilities. Every fall, Unity hosted a series of conferences, all the world's important people flocking to the capital city of Gallontea to attend, and every fall, Gareth's sister Moira made him join them. If it were up to him, he' d be back home working on his book, playing in the fallen leaves with his daughter or walking his estate grounds arm-in-arm with his wife. But this year, finally, his pilgrimage to Gallontea may have been worth it. Getting a firsthand account from Egil's good friend — it was just what his book needed!

He couldn't reach his destination fast enough. Turning a final corner, he saw it: a massive courthouse that towered against the rocky coast, its pointed arches and stone spires reaching for the gray sky. Beside it stood Unity's famous clock tower. As the salty ocean breeze washed over him, Gareth looked up at its glowing face and did some quick math: he had just under an hour to get inside, convince his sister to abandon her duties for the day, and meet up with Isobel across the bridge in Gallontea.

He hurried up the stairs, between bronze statues of the gods Ellaes and Atuos, and into the courthouse. Normally, this place was reverent, almost oppressive in its silence. Today, Gareth was surprised when he opened the doors to a burst of sound. Remnants of a once-large crowd lingered in the doorway, whispering excitedly among themselves. Those nearest Gareth stopped when he entered, but started again as soon as they realized he was nobody special. Gareth self-consciously adjusted the strap of his writing bag and pushed past, straining to hear the whispers as he went.

“—All the way from Illyon,” one man said to his friends.

At the next grouping, a nympherai whispered, “It’s the alfar king. I hear he’s sick. That's why he didn't come today.”

Passing a third group, Gareth caught only one word: “Orinians.”

By the time he reached the stairs, his curiosity blazed even brighter than before. He hurried up toward the representatives’ offices, his eyes sliding over Unity’s decadence — the oil paintings and velvet hangings, the wooden carvings and gilded railings. By now, he was used to it. At the top of the stairs, the hallway split in three directions, one for each of Calaidia’s species.

Gareth had always found the impossibly vaulted ceilings down the center hall excessive. It was built for the dragons, but only the draconic Magistrate herself excluded, they tended not to grow much taller than draft horses. They didn't warrant this. But then, it was said that the red dragons had been monstrously large. The other two hallways were far more reasonable, by comparison, and Gareth took the one to the left, following it to the human representatives' wing. Calaidia's three species shared Unity's power equally: each had seats on the Congregation of Representatives, which created and enforced laws, and each appointed one Magistrate to oversee them. The Magistrates were, by far, the most powerful people on the continent — more powerful than the representatives, and more powerful than the leaders of the individual provinces. They were also the busiest people on the continent, so Gareth wasn't surprised to find Moira's office empty.

“She's in a meeting,” one of Moira's clerks said. “Would you like me to take a message for you, Mr. Ranulf?”

Gareth waved the girl off. “That’s quite alright. I’ll catch up with her later.” When he turned to leave, though, he hesitated. “I say, is there something happening downstairs? There was quite a crowd when I passed through.”

The clerk’s face remained carefully neutral. “I don’t know anything about that, sir.”

“Really? I heard it has something to do with the Alfheimr royal family.”

This time, the clerk only smiled. “That's a very interesting theory.”

“Right,” Gareth said, taking the hint. “Well. It's supposed to be your day off, isn't it? Don't let my sister overwork you.”

“Yes, Mr. Ranulf.”

Gareth took the long way out, past the representatives' offices. Almost everyone was in today, and Gareth suspected that if he performed a similar inspection in the other two wings, he'd find more of the same. It was odd. You rarely saw this level of turnout on actual conference days, let alone on a weekend. The conference season was for seeing and being seen, not for any serious political work. Whatever had brought the Nochdvors here must be serious.

Moira wouldn’t tell him anything even if he found her, but Gareth was a stubborn man with an insatiable curiosity, and he could be very annoying when he chose to be. That was why he thrived in academia. He could squeeze something interesting out of her, he was sure, so he decided to check one more place for his sister, heading down to the main courtroom. From there, he took the private hallway to the Magistrates' Chambers. Before he could knock at the door, raised voices stilled his hand.

Damn him, but he couldn’t resist a mystery. He inched closer, stood on the tips of his toes, and peered through the door’s narrow window. Inside, he saw four people — two familiar and two new.

“This was your idea, Moira?” asked Malong, one of the three Magistrates of the Congregation of Unity. She stood with her back to the wide windows, the sunslight catching on her diamond-clear scales and sending rainbows cascading along the walls. Gareth shrunk down, trying to hide as much of himself as possible. Between her prismatic hide, her low voice, and her size — she stood an unprecedented thirty-two hands tall — Malong was a fearsome sight, and knowing her all his life had only made Gareth fear her more. Fortunately, her gaze was fixed on Moira, who lounged comfortably on a leather sofa.

“Does it matter? Our esteemed guests vetoed this one, too,” Moira said, sounding bored. Gareth could only see the back of her head, but he'd grown up with that tone. He could imagine the matching expression perfectly.

“It will take too long,” said one of the strangers, a young alfar woman with hair like spun gold. Her catlike pupils had narrowed to slits in the sunslight. “We don't have time.”

The Princess of Alfheimr, Rheamaren Nochdvor. If Gareth hadn't heard the gossip, he might not have recognized her. She had little in common with her father aside from her hair, her eyes dark and her features soft. While Gareth had met Amos only once, as a child, he'd never forget. The alfar had been a vision, exactly what a young boy imagined a powerful king should be. While Rheamaren was arresting, she didn't have Amos' commanding presence. Not yet.

When she stepped forward, revealing more of the man beside her, Gareth gasped. This one — this one had it. For a moment, Gareth thought it actually was Amos Nochdvor, here after all, but he was too young. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

Leandros Nochdvor was tall, strong, with a handsome face and the same golden hair as his cousin. And like his cousin, he wore a closely-tailored suit, ornate in a way only Alfheimr could produce. But while hers was green and gold, in line with Alfheimr's love of bright colors and shiny things, his was all black, as if he was in mourning. He wore a gun at one hip, a sword at the other. What presence Rheamaren lacked, Leandros had; Gareth had not trouble fitting him into legends alongside Egil and the Oracle of Damael. While the others talked, Leandros’ expression was a sheet of ice over a frozen lake. Every so often, Gareth glimpsed dark, dangerous shadows churning underneath.

“I urge you to reconsider, Your Highness,” came a thin, rasping voice from a corner of the chambers Gareth couldn't see. He recognized it, though: it belonged to Diomis, the third and final of Unity's Magistrates. Diomis continued, “We understand the need for urgency, but this situation must be handled delicately. We need to investigate, and we need to do so without escalating it.”

Gareth held his breath. Situation?

Leandros lifted his chin at Diomis' words, the small gesture somehow dripping contempt, and Gareth noticed an old scar that stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw. Still, he didn’t speak.

“With all due respect, Magistrate, Orean escalated the situation when they kidnapped my father,” said the princess, making Gareth gasp out in the quiet hallway. “Leandros and I didn't come here to be careful. We came to ask for Unity's assistance — barring that, your permission — to do whatever it takes to get our king back. I fear your plan, tiptoeing around Orean, negotiating with them, won't be enough.”

“We understand your fears, Your Highness,” Moira said. “You’ve expressed them several times over. But Unity won’t sanction a war just because you are afraid.”

Gareth winced at his sister's harsh words. That was just like Moira, candid to a fault. In her defense, she had the power to be. Rheamaren didn't react, but Leandros' brows drew together. A bold expression, for an alfar. “I never said anything about war,” the princess corrected. “I only want to—”

“To ride to Orean with an army and demand the king's return?” Moira finished. “Where do you think that will lead? Do you think they'll fall over themselves apologizing and return him to you, as easy as that?”

Rheamaren's expression remained artfully impassive. It had always unsettled Gareth, on his research trips to Alfheimr, how masterfully its people could mask their emotions. “Don't sanction anything, then,” Rheamaren said. “Just don't get in our way.”

“Princess, try to understand,” Diomis said, still only a disembodied voice. “The rest of the world would see our silence as permission, regardless of our intent. We cannot allow this violence until we know more.”

“Allow?”

“Yes, allow. Alfheim will not engage with Orean if we say it cannot,” Malong said.

“We can find with a different solution, then,” the princess said, glancing at her cousin – for assistance, perhaps? For support? Gareth closely watched Leandros’ face, catching another shadow flicker beneath the ice. Gareth couldn't get a read on their relationship.

“No,” Moira said. “We've done nothing all day but try to compromise. If you won't see sense, then the discussion is over. Alfheimr is not to engage with Orean. Unity will investigate your father's disappearance and negotiate his return, and that is that.”