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A map had been included, startlingly detailed and accurate. A place west of their current location had been circled, at the very edge of the duchy. A crumbling old tower surrounded by flat fields: impossible to approach with anything like caution. They would be forced to ride up with white flags waving, unarmed, and even then it seemed likelier they’d all be slaughtered than allowed to sue for peace.

Night had just fallen, and Reggie had entered the manor – ablaze with candles and warm from the many fires burning – sweaty, sore, fresh from his own fruitless patrol, to find everyone gathered in the dining room, faces grave. His stomach had twisted painfully when Edward read the brief missive aloud. The scout – the lone one of his party allowed to return – sat against the wall, nursing a brimming cup of wine that someone had pressed into his hand and which he nearly spilled thanks to his shaking.

Amelia stood at the head of the table, hands gripping the back of a chair, head bowed. She appeared to be taking it the hardest. The room was quiet, now, save the crackle of the fire and her harsh, open-mouthed breathing.

Halfway down the table, seated sideways in a chair with her legs crossed to the side, in a gown of clinging peach velvet, Lady Leda asked, “How many boys were in the party?”

“Fifteen,” Connor said, unusually sober from his place leaning against the mantelpiece. “They have fourteen hostages.”

There had been more than fourteen when Reggie was in their hands; his whole battalion. But he’d been the lord, the one with the brightest sword and most elaborate armor. Their captain. And why bother with torturing a runner or a manservant when you could toy with an heir? One with golden hair who cried easy, when–

Reggie throttled the thought forcefully, turned, and started pacing the width of the room. It was that or find a bottle and drink himself into oblivion.

“They’re still holding hostages in the Crownlands,” he heard Amelia say. “Royal hostages. They have the queen for gods’ sakes. Why waste their time with…” She trailed off. “Shit. It’s not a waste of time. We’regetting them back.”

“They’re testing you,” Edward said. “After their loss in the North, they’ll want to gauge your strength as a leader. See if they can manipulate your emotions.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because I’m a woman, and I’m weak? Because I’ll make a stupid, rash decision and get us all killed?”

“Do you expect them to be respectful?” he countered. “Women don’t fight in Seles. They aren’t generals, and they don’t muster forces. They assume they can crush you.”

“But we have the drakes,” Leda said. “There’s no need to ride out in force to meet them, nor to surrender. Why can’t Amelia simply fly in, burn the tower to the ground, and fly back out with her men?”

“That might work,” Edward said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “But it would require reconnaissance, first. The Selesee trebuchets are notorious; if they have a large and accurate scorpion, they could shoot the drakes from the sky.”

Amelia made a half-furious, half-distressed sound.

Reggie knew that he should contribute in some fashion – even a bad idea, if that was all he could concoct. But his pulse was growing quicker and quicker, fresh sweat prickling against the cold dampness of the day’s dirty clothes, and he had to let their words wash over him, background murmurs. He couldn’t draw a deep breath, and that was making him dizzy. The fire was too hot, his collar too stifling.

He touched his throat as he paced, and he felt the noose, tightening, tightening, tightening.

Felt hands on his shoulders, his wrists, his ankles, his hips, bruising, crushing, holding him down. Laughter, and the lilting strains of Selesee taunts, their meaning harsh and crude, without need of translation.

He hit the wall, and turned–

And was pulled up short. Halted in his tracks.

His head snatched back so sharply it sent a spike of pain down his neck. His visioned had tunneled down to a narrow span between two dancing curves of black spots. But he could see Connor clearly enough, brows furrowed, hand wrapped firmly around his biceps as he held him in place.

His lips moved as he said something that Reggie couldn’t hear. His panic tripled; a live flock of birds in his chest desperate to get out.

“Let go of me.”

But Connor didn’t. His lips compressed into a flat, unimpressed line, and when Reggie tried to get away, he had his wrist twisted, arm wrenched behind his back, and, despite his gasp, found himself being forcefully marched out through the French doors onto the private terrace that overlooked the playing courts.

The cold night air slapped him across the face, cleared his vision, filled his lungs with the first deep breath he’d had in five minutes. It gave him the strength to twist free, finally, turn, and clock Connor in the face.

He made the attempt, at least. Connor dodged, quicker than Reggie expected – all that time slinking around dressed like a shadow in the forest – and he caught him with only a glancing blow on the outer edge of his cheekbone.

They both cursed afterward, Reggie clutching his knuckles and Connor his face.

“Damn.” Connor checked his fingertips for blood, and then worked his jaw side to side. “You done?” He sounded unimpressed, which turned Reggie’s too-hot panic to anger. “Did you get it out of your system?”

“Out of my–” He snarled. Stepped forward and jabbed a finger into his face. “How dare – don’t you ever – in front of everyone–”

A light tap struck his cheek, accompanied by a faintsmackof skin on skin. There was no pain, only a faint tingling, and it took him a long moment to realize that Connor had slapped him.

His mouth fell open, but he found he couldn’t form any sort of coherent objection.