The blue banner was ridiculous until it wasn't. From the pavilion above the training field, it looked like a slice of sky pinned to a mast—deep Valerian cobalt, sewn with a silver wave that glinted when the wind hit it right. The banner belonged to the Griffin household; it meant discipline, money, and a very particular kind of influence in the marble city of Aurelis. Juliette had spent the morning pretending to admire the embroidery. She was better at pretending. She and Arabella sat on velvet cushions while below the princes tore through their drills like dogs chasing a rabbit. Juliette held a piece of candied citrus between two fingers, the sticky sugar cracking under her teeth. It tasted of home in a way nothing else here did: bright, acidic, impossibly modern. She chewed and watched. "You're bored," Arabella said. Her voice had the slow, dangerous amusement of an empress used to being obeyed. She wore a simple gown—white, wrist-stitched lace that showed without shouting. The citizens who believed in omens watched Arabella's wardrobe the way they followed the observatory's charts. The empress did both with an artful indifference. "I'm observing," Juliette replied. "There's a difference. Observing is very strategic." Arabella snorted. "Strategic how?" Juliette shrugged. "If you're going to be married off by legend, you should at least know how to pick your ducks." "Ah. I'll fetch you a handsome duck, then." Arabella reached out and flicked a