At long last, the Emperor rose from the ruinous splendor of his bed. The women stirred in his absence, their sleeping forms shifting among the loosened sheets as though the warmth of him had been a sun withdrawn from their little world. Cin paid them one last glance over his shoulder, golden eyes still heavy, before he reached for the robe laid waiting across the back of a carved cedar chair. It was a lavish thing of silken thread, light enough to whisper against the skin, yet rich enough to proclaim what he was even in the privacy of his own chamber. Deep folds of jewel-toned fabric fell over his shoulders and slid down the length of him, catching the morning light in subtle gleam. He tied it loosely at his waist and moved toward the tray that had been prepared for him. The sight of food made the beast in his belly stir again, less politely this time. His servants had chosen well. There were rounds of warm flatbread wrapped in linen to preserve their heat, bowls of golden honey thick as sunlight, figs split open to show their jeweled hearts, dates dusted with crushed pistachio, slices of melon beading with dew, and small dishes fragrant with spiced cream, salt, and roasted herbs. It was a meal suited not merely to a man, but to a ruler accustomed to having the world anticipate his hunger. Cin tore a piece of bread with his clawed fingers and dipped it into the honey. The sweetness clung to it in a slow amber ribbon before he brought it to his mouth. He ate with measured pleasure at first, then with a greater urgency as his body remembered itself. The bread was soft, still warm from the ovens below, and the honey coated his tongue before sliding down his throat in a rich, soothing trail. He followed it with fruit, then another piece of bread, then a dark fig that burst between his teeth with such ripe sweetness that he closed his eyes for the briefest instant. Beside the meal, a goblet of wine waited, red and gleaming, filled nearly to its jeweled rim. It caught the light with wicked beauty, as if it knew him, as if it remembered every reckless oath and velvet laugh from the night before. Cin reached for it by instinct. His fingers curled around the stem, and for a heartbeat he considered surrendering to the old comfort of it. Wine had always been a loyal companion to kings, conquerors, poets, and fools. Then the ache in his skull pulsed with fresh cruelty. His hand stilled. His eyes narrowed at the goblet as though it had personally betrayed him. Memory rose in fragments, not sharp enough to be useful, but humiliating enough to caution him. Laughter too loud. Cups raised too often. The blur of dancers. The heat of bodies. The taste of wine becoming less a drink and more a river into which he had willingly thrown himself. This, then, was the culprit. This ruby temptation had helped lead him into his present predicament. With a low sound of disdain, Cin released the goblet and pushed it aside. “Not this morning,” he muttered. Instead, he took up the pitcher of water. It had been cooled in the shaded lower halls, and condensation clung to its polished surface like tiny pearls. He poured generously into a clean cup and drank deep. The water touched his tongue like mercy. It ran cold down his throat, cutting through the cloying remnants of incense and smoke. He drank again, slower this time, letting the chill settle inside him as if it might tame the fire blazing behind his eyes. It did not cure the pain, but it softened its teeth. When he had eaten enough to quiet his hunger and drunk enough to trust his own balance, Cin turned from the tray and crossed the chamber toward the balcony. The curtains stirred as he approached, long panels of pale fabric lifting and falling in the breeze like the breathing of some enormous ghost. Beyond them, the morning unfurled in brilliance. He stepped out into the open air. The balcony jutted from the palace like the prow of a celestial ship, suspended above terraces, courtyards, gardens, and the sprawling majesty of his capital.