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Erida ignored him. “Disloyalty is rot in the foundations of peace and prosperity. I will not have it in my empire. The first man to tell me where you were going, and who was helping you, will live. I give you this chance only once.”

Both lords went wide-eyed, their faces pulled in exasperation. They glanced to each other, unblinking, their mouths tightly shut.

Again silence fell heavy through the chamber, palpable as smoke in the air. She remained still, relentless, giving no quarter to the traitors in front of her, no matter how much she wanted to look back, to draw strength from Thornwall or Taristan. Instead she drew it from her father, her own memories of him stalwartupon the Gallish throne. He dealt with treason and betrayers all his life, always with wisdom and always harshly. Anything else left room for treachery.

She would not break before the lords did. Her crowns depended on it.

“Byllskos,” the kneeling lord sputtered out, even as his compatriot lunged for him. Erida’s soldiers caught him around the middle, hauling him back as he yelled in Madrentine, spouting curses and threats.

The kneeling lord began to weep, his hands raised in surrender. “The Tyri princes,” he gasped. “The Tyri princes rise against you.”

Between her captors, Marguerite flailed. “Don’t—”

“And him too,” the kneeler said, throwing a letter to the floor at Erida’s feet.

Again the other betrayer shouted, his deep bellow lacing with Marguerite’s high pleading. Erida heard neither of their cries and grasped the letter, unfolding the parchment with numb fingers. Her eyes went not to the writing, but to the seal broken at the bottom.

The green lion stared up at her, and her skin went to flame.

Konegin.

Erida had not seen him in more than two months, since Castle Lotha, since before she won a crown her predecessors had only dreamed of. Since Lord Konegin put poison in her husband’s cup and fled a failed assassination, disappearing into the borderlands. Suddenly he stood among them, golden-haired and fox-eyed, done up in all his silks and furs. He leered from every face. The lords, Marguerite, her own soldiers, even Thornwall. No one but Taristanwas safe from the shadow of Konegin. She found herself wishing the specter in her mind were real, so she could strangle her usurping cousin with her own two hands. He wavered before her very eyes, his grin sickening, a scroll in his hand. It dangled over her still, all the names, every suitor, every person he’d ever tried to foist upon her. They burned in her mind alongside Konegin’s face, each one a still bleeding wound.

“Who, Your Majesty?” she heard Thornwall ask. His voice sounded far away, as if shouted down a long passage.

Her vision spiraled as she walked, the letter in her grasp. She felt nothing, only the pounding rage at the back of her skull. Her breath came in short bursts, all her focus turning outward, to her appearance, to her mask of calm. She felt it slipping and tried to hold on, willing herself to keep moving. To remain a queen, and not a beast.

“Here,” she murmured, pressing the parchment into Thornwall’s palm.

The edges of her sight went black, the shadows spotting and spreading. A wave of sickness churned, but her anger was stronger. It guided her body and kept her upright, even as Taristan stepped closer. His lips moved but she could not hear him, all sound dying away. All sensation gone.

But for the leather in her hand, steel beneath it.

Thornwall’s dagger was old, unused for a decade.

And still sharp.

Marguerite’s flesh gave like butter, the blade finding home in her stomach. Erida heard nothing, even as the princess’s mouth went wide, her teeth biting at the air. She felt her hand twist, the girl’sorgans give way around the dagger. Warm blood ran over her hands, scarlet like the sky outside, like the velvet on Taristan’s chest, like the devil sheen in his eyes. The white-and-pink marble splattered with red as the young princess collapsed. She floundered, a fish on a line, choking on the blood welling up in her mouth. She pawed weakly at her own entrails, every swipe of her hand growing slower and more sluggish. Finally she stilled, her eyes blank and staring. The palace of her father stared back, filled with foolish paintings of idiot fields and taunting trees. Statues of kings long dead loomed close, watching with stone eyes as their dynasty bled to death upon marble and pearl.

Air seared back into Erida’s lungs. She gasped one breath after another, her teeth bared. She felt like a lioness, like a sword, powerful and ruinous. For once, she held fate in her own hands.

One of the lords was sick all over himself, the smell cutting through Erida’s dulled senses. She rounded on him with a scowl of disgust.

“Grow a spine,” she snarled, nearly stumbling.

Burning hands caught her before she hit the marble, holding her in place. She tried to shove Taristan away, to stand on her own two feet, but he held firm, a crutch as much as an anchor.

Around the chamber, her subjects gaped. Even Thornwall was white-faced, the paper still in hand. His pale eyes wavered between Erida and the body, his dagger still in Marguerite’s abdomen.

Erida forced down another breath, trying not to gag. Everything stank of vomit and blood. Her fingers clawed to Taristan, her head pounding, her stomach twisting over and over. She wanted to faint or fly.

“Thornwall,” she growled, panting. Sweat broke out over her skin, and she shivered at the sudden damp.

Next to the throne, her commander trembled, slack-jawed. He dared not speak.

Erida smoothed her hair away from her face, leaving a smear of blood across her cheek. She sucked down a cold gasp of air, letting it center her.

“Send word to Siscaria and Tyriot. They will kneel, or they will fall.”