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I stand and set the chess pieces on the table, then offer him a flourishing bow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I had no idea this was an official meeting.”

“Corrick.” His tone is unyielding.

I didn’t want to kill those prisoners.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I don’t want you toneed me to do this anymore. This can’t be how Father would have wanted us to lead.

I can’t say any of that. “There were few guards left in the Hold after the attacks,” I say. “The few that remained were needed to remove the bodies.” I pause. “Are your guards to be your spies now?”

“Do they need to be?”

I don’t have to pretend to be offended at the question. “No!”

“That girl didn’t want you to kill those prisoners—”

“Neither did Arella and Roydan,” I snap. “Send your guards to eavesdrop on them.”

“—and she asked Rocco to take her to find you in the Hold. Why?”

Because she saw through me. Because she knew I was a breath away from shattering. Because her hope hasn’t burned away into nothing.

I can’t say any of that either.

Harristan takes a step closer to me. “I thought this was a simple dalliance,” he says, his tone low. “An infatuation, maybe, that got away from you. I was willing to overlook it.”

I move to the side table and uncork the brandy. I want to pour it straight down my throat, but I have the sense to use a glass. “But your guard has convinced you otherwise?”

“You spend a great deal of time in the Hold, speaking with smugglers. I find it an interesting coincidence that when the night patrol caught a small operation, half of them were able to call for rebellion and escape. And when Allisander caught another group, they were able to set the sector on fire while being rescued.”

My hand goes still on the glass as the impact of these words becomes clear. Even still, I can’t quite believe it. I turn around. “What are you asking me, Harristan?”

“Are you involved with these smugglers somehow? Do you know anything about the thieves who’ve been plaguing the sector?”

The world seems to tilt on its axis, just for the barest moment. I’m destroying myself for the sake of my brother, and he’s all but accusing me of treason.

The worst part is that he’s not wrong. Not entirely.

I drain the glass of brandy and pour another.

He moves close. His voice drops. “Tell me, Cory. If you’re doing this—whatever they’ve promised you—”

All of my anger flares. I whirl, plant my hands on his chest, and shove him as hard as I can. “Get out.”

He stumbles back a step, surprise plain on his face. Then he coughs. Hard. He puts a hand to his chest.

For an instant, panic replaces all the anger. He sucks in a breath, and it sounds like he’s breathing through a cupful of water.

“Harristan,” I whisper.

He grabs hold of the back of a chair and fights to breathe.

I did this. I did this. Tessa said he was fine, but he’s clearly not. I move to surge past him to shout for a physician.

Harristan seizes my sleeve and draws me up short. “Tell me,” he gasps. His eyes are dark and intent on mine.

And a little desperate.