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For not the first time, Erida was glad to have the old commander at her side. “Good.”

Her knights threw the doors of the palace wide, ushering them all into the great chambers within. The receiving hall came first, patterned in pink-and-white tile, each stone set with real mother-of-pearl. Erida wanted to tear down the palace brick by brick, so she could ship back every precious gem or stone to her treasury. The marble statues of the Madrentine kings glared down at her as she passed. Erida daydreamed about smashing every face to pieces, until nothing remained at all.

“Where are the courtiers?” she asked. Her voice echoed off marble and limestone, carrying up to the painted ceiling.

“In the throne room, waiting with Robart.” Thornwall gesturedonward, through another arch. “Not to worry, the Lionguard will be with you every inch of the way.”

“I do not fear Robart or his sniveling nobles,” Erida said hotly. “These Madrentines are weak.” She eyed the chamber again. Every fleck of paint and pearl. Her lip curled with disgust. “They have grown lazy after years of peace, better suited to the coin or quill than the sword or crown.”

When she stepped through, she found that the throne was empty, raised on a dais, standing in silhouette against a bank of diamond-paned windows. The blue waters of Vara’s Bay flashed in the afternoon sun, a shield of sapphire and gold, the reflections dappling the pale walls of the chamber.

The King of Madrence waited some feet below his former throne, standing on the steps of the dais, his hands clasped behind his back.

Erida didn’t break stride as she walked toward him.

“At least Robart is smart enough not to posture,” Erida whispered to Thornwall, her eyes falling on the throne.

Even without his throne, Robart still looked a king, done up in burgundy velvet, a jeweled belt around his thick waist. He wore his silver crown, the rubies standing out against blond hair given over to gray. Erida saw his son in his blue eyes and strong jaw, as well as his natural disdain. They scowled the same way.

His courtiers, few as they were, stood in silence like the rest of the city. They looked sullen, eyes downcast, in rumpled clothing with mussed hair. Either these lords and ladies had chosen to stay or were forced to. Erida cared little for either explanation.

The Lionguard fanned out in formation, letting Erida approachthe throne. Even Taristan slowed, standing only a few feet ahead of her retinue, with Ronin at his shoulder.

“All hail Erida, Twice Queen of Galland and Madrence,” Thornwall shouted, his voice reverberating around the marble hall. “The glory of Old Cor reborn.”

Her eyelids fluttered, a shiver of delight running down her spine. She felt as if wings had grown from her shoulder blades, spreading wide, filling the chamber with her majesty and power. Every eye followed her steps across the floor, and she reveled in it.Twice queen.

“Your Majesty.” The title felt like an insult from Robart’s mouth, but he bowed low, bending forward with all the skill of a court-born royal. Erida did not miss the disgust on his face.

It would serve little purpose to nitpick. The throne was already hers. Robart was a broken man, a king no longer.I’ve taken everything else from him. I will leave him his ugly looks.

“Robart,” she said firmly, unbowed. Her cloak trailed behind her, the lion roaring across the floor of the throne room. “You are wise to kneel.”

The deposed king flinched, his entire body jumping. His mouth worked, jaw clenching and unclenching. But he knew better than to fight back. Slowly, he sank to the floor, his old bones cracking as he fell to a knee.

“My queen,” he said hoarsely, gesturing to the throne. His disgust melted to shame as she ascended, leaving Robart broken upon the steps.

The throne of Madrence was pearl and silver, cushioned with dark red velvet. It was magnificent but not imposing, nothing tofear. Erida sank into it with a languid sigh, exhaling all the failures of the men who came before her.

It is I who sits on another throne, who wears a second crown. A woman, and no one else.

Around the hall, the others dropped to their knees, Taristan and her own courtiers as well as the lords and ladies of Madrence. They were less reluctant than their king, more eager to get the whole conquest business finished. Erida could not blame them. Already she tired at the prospect of judging their loyalty.

But it needed to be done and done quickly.

Erida twitched her fingers, motioning for everyone to stand.

“I will hear your oaths and allegiances,” she said firmly, folding her hands in her lap. Hawkish, she surveyed the room with a keen eye. She knew a few names already, the more powerful nobles of Madrence. “And I require a chair for my consort, the Prince of Old Cor.”

Taristan’s face didn’t move, but Erida saw the satisfaction in the set of his shoulders, the steady motion of his hands, and his easy, deliberate steps forward, his loping wolf stride more fearsome than any knight in the hall.

Robart’s restraint broke.

“That monster killed my son in cold blood,” he snarled, coming to the foot of the dais with fists curled. He was of a height with Taristan, but still seemed so much smaller, a weak excuse for a king. Taristan halted a yard from Robart, unbothered. His manner incensed the king further, Robart’s face going red.

“How dare you stand here among us,” he hissed. “Have you no shame? No soul?”

On the throne, Erida did not move. She weighed the room quickly, eyeing the Madrentine nobles standing to one side. They shared their king’s disgust, and for some, even his grief. Briefly, Erida wondered how many courtiers the charming Prince Orleon had bedded before meeting his end.