"Where is the small one?" Tiamat asked, eyes skimming past the maps. "The one who solves triangles and orders men to breathe."
"Stealing tea lessons," I said, already reaching for my slate. "I'll ping 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 noticed the Dragon Empress and froze.
Tiamat's shoulders set down a fraction. She crouched—slow, so the world could catch up—and held out both hands like she was greeting a shy bird.
"Come, little architect," she said.
Stella went, because children who know wolves also know when they're safe. Tiamat read her at a glance—scuffed knee, ink on fingers, attention like a blade—and something in her face softened in a way courts never see.
"I brought you something," she said, and traced a small circle in the air.
