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“Just that,” Leesa clears her throat, “I had to kill them, or they would kill me. I didn’t want to. I fought it with Mother. But the voice got stronger, more demanding. More real. I started to lose myself. It felt like something kept forcing me deeper inside myself, into a smaller and smaller ball, and then shoved me into a box and locked the lid shut. It probably doesn’t make sense, but that…thing was eventually in complete control.”

My heart shatters as another round of silent sobs rack her body. “It wasn’t you, Leesa. It was the drachen. Like you said, it had utter control over you. None of this is your fault. No one blames you for what happened.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not true,” she whispers. “Because I do. I blame myself. If I were stronger…”

The keening moan that follows is one of the worst sounds I’ve ever heard. I rub her back and whisper soothing words, but she continues whimpering as if I’m not even here.

Movement catches my attention in the cell doorway. Bastian shifts his weight, his face contorted with the same pain that I’m sure mine displays. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but his expression suggests he’s heard enough.

He strides over to us and crouches down. “Leesa.”

With a ragged sob, she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and babbling incoherent words.

Gently scooping her into his arms, he rises. A single tear slides down his cheek.

Thank you, he mouths at me before carrying Leesa from the cell.

Agnar and I sit without speaking and watch them walk away.

* * *

Despite the very late—or rather, very early—hour, Agnar and I, dirty and exhausted, head back to update the queen. My heart races as we approach Sterling’s sitting room, and I’m filled with a mixture of relief over Leesa and dread for what awaits us.

We find the space bustling with activity. Pages and couriers dart in and out, taking written orders from Alannah. She sits on a couch, a blanket draped over her lap and a full tea service arranged before her.

Rhiann stands at attention behind her, ever the dutiful Lady of the Bedchamber and devoted niece. The queen is flanked by her ladies-in-waiting ready to do her every bidding. Various royal council members sit on the rearranged couches, some fully dressed and others wearing dressing gowns around their nightclothes, with their hair disheveled. Everyone’s expressions appears somber and focused.

Duchess Breann spots us first, her eyes widening at the sorry state we’re in.

“Your Majesty.” I step forward, hoping my news will ease some of the tension. “We managed to cure Leesa. She seems to be all right physically, but emotionally and mentally? Well, that’s going to take some time.”

“Thank you, dear.” The queen’s eyes soften as she processes this news, and the worry eases a bit from her shoulders. “I’m very happy to hear the news of your sister. It gives me hope for my son.”

All eyes are on us now, expressions ranging from shock to disdain.

Poor Sterling had to deal with them every day. Every. Single. Day.

Duchess Breann notices my curiosity and waves me over, pushing back her graying hair with a frustrated motion. “We’ve been going through the prince’s orders. I heard it was you who found him. I’m so very sorry, Lark. Her Majesty brought us up to speed while you were with your sister.”

Across from the duchess, Nira, a curvy woman with shiny brown hair, shakes her head. “I think he may have set a new record for orders given in a single day.” She smooths a hand over her stunning emerald dress. “We’re trying to rescind them as quickly as possible now that we know he was not himself and was working against the kingdom.”

As the queen continues to write new orders, the royal council members who are in attendance chat amongst themselves.

“Prince Knox has been giving orders to import eyril from Aclaris.” A man in his early twenties with blond hair and a prominent chin wrinkles his nose when he takes in my appearance. “He had it passed around to every soldier in Tirene. The captains of every squad were ordered to have their soldiers drink the eyril in case of a drachen attack.”

My stomach churns at the thought. The drachen—or whoever controls them—found a way to use Sterling’s position to spread their influence, endangering countless lives.

A grandfatherly man with thin gray hair and a wiry mustache gestures to a map spread across a table, marked with colored pins and scribbled annotations. “The confusing part, Duke Bron, is that all soldiers were put on rotation to pass through this point,” he taps his finger on the southeastern border, “before fanning out in a sort of border guard.” He glances up at Agnar and me, his face pinched with concern. “We’re not sure why, since they weren’t ordered to meet up, collect, or drop off anything there.”

Agnar strides forward, scrutinizing the map. I follow, my heart racing as I study the markers that litter the parchment.

Sterling’s words come back to me.

I’ve spent the day sending squads southward. Before long, Tirene’s forces will march to a different drum, one beat by the drachen.

The revelation makes me glad I only managed a few bites of my dinner.

“We just confirmed with Leesa something Prince Knox told me. A drachen’s fear attack, when they hold you still or make you walk toward them, is one part of the process. But the corruption also requires the person to drink eyril. That activates the corruption. His highness said he was sending out troops.”