The lantern smoke curled into the night like silver question marks. On the terrace, jasmine wilted in the hush as men and women of the palace pressed close, a ring of shadowed faces around the small, terrible tableau: Raidant’s gloved hand white-knuckled around the sword, Iravika’s fingers trembling at her throat, and a courier — not a servant’s harmless face, but a stranger’s, grave and composed — holding a sealed scroll edged with soot.