The moment the heavy cedar doors of the East Palace slid shut behind us, the terrifying, unyielding Warlord mask completely melted off Akira's face.
He slumped back against the door, letting out a long, ragged exhale that sounded like he had been holding it in for the last hour.
I didn't blame him. We had just walked away from an assassination attempt, a framed prince, and a hijacked magic ritual, all before dessert was even served.
"I am going to throw up."
I looked down. Yuki was no longer a fluffy white cat. The twelve-year-old boy was lying flat on his back on the tatami mats, clutching his stomach and groaning miserably. His white cat ears were pinned flat against his head.
"Are you hurt?" I knelt down next to him, panic spiking in my chest. "Did the Emperor's magic hit you?"
