"First," Tiamat said, eyes skimming past the maps, "where is the small one? The one who solves triangles and orders men to breathe."
"Stealing tea lessons," I said, reaching for my slate. "I'll call her."
I didn't have to. The door hissed and Stella slid in on socks, braid escaping, cheeks bright. "Aunt Rachel says boiling isn't cooking," she announced—and then saw the Dragon Empress and froze.
Tiamat's shoulders came down a fraction. She crouched, slowly, so the world could catch up, and held out both hands the way you greet a shy bird.
"Come, little architect."
Stella went, because children who know wolves also know when they're safe. Tiamat read her at a glance—scuffed knee, ink on her fingers, attention like a blade—and something in her face softened in a way no court has ever seen.
"I brought you something."
