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He left with that promise hanging in the air—and before I could point out that he was the only one with secrets. Although, that wasn’t really true. The solstone blade remained in my room. Rowena was somewhere in the palace, and I had no idea where her loyalties lay.

Or how I’d heard her voice in my head.

“The bath is ready, Your Highness.”

I turned to find both maidservants watching me with wary expressions. Forget spurring rumors with Varick’s name, I was providing plenty of gossip fodder with my crumpled gown and disheveled hair.

“Thank you,” I said. “I can handle it on my own.”

The taller one frowned. “Are you certain? We could—”

“Quite certain.” I pasted a smile on my face. “Go to your dinners. I’ll soak for a bit and then fall asleep.”

Mentioning dinner did the trick. They left in a flurry of curtsies and murmured thanks, and then I was finally alone.

But that also meant I was alone with my thoughts, which tumbled around my head, each one weightier than the last. My heart raced, and my blood still sizzled with borrowed power.

I ended up on the balcony, where the night air cooled my heated skin. Snow fell around me in fat, lazy flakes. I tilted my head back and let them settle on my cheeks and forehead, each one a kiss of icy clarity. It rarely snowed in Sithistra and never in Beldurn. I lowered my head and stared out at the city, finding the spot on the horizon where the lights ended and the countryside began. The Rift wasn’t too far beyond it.

But more than the chasm separated Nor Doru and Sithistra. I thought I’d known that before, but now those differences were clearer than ever. Like Varick’s arm, they had been laid open and exposed to the root. And I didn’t belong in either place. All my life, I’d felt like a rift passed through me, too. It cleaved me in half, leaving an emptiness I’d longed to fill up with something… Knowledge, maybe.

No more secrets.

I curled my hands around the frigid railing, letting the frost sink into my skin until my fingers were numb. Rolund and Laurent had a lot more in common than they thought. Both withheld truth like it was some priceless treasure to be doled out to only the most worthy—and I clearly didn’t meet that definition in either of their minds. Nevertheless, they were both willing to use me to get what they wanted.

But what did Rolund want? My brother was no fool…and he had spies in the north.

Fear sluiced through me. Rolund was the only one with the resources to place Rowena in the middle of Laurent’s court. So just what was he playing at, putting that dagger in my hand?

“The South is with you.”

I squeezed the railing. My heart pumped faster, sending Laurent’s power-laced blood singing through my veins. What do you want me to do, Rolund? If only I could talk to my brother. I wanted to see his face when I asked him if he was responsible for the solstone. If I was caught with it, my life could be forfeit. Shivers coursed over my skin, the cold finally getting to me.

Except…no, it wasn’t the cold. I frowned.

The tremors came from inside me, like an earthquake starting deep underground and then screaming to the surface. I gripped the railing. The whole balcony seemed to rock. Gasping, I stumbled backward, flailing—

My back slammed into a wall.

The shaking stopped.

But I wasn’t in my room. Instead of a balcony, a dimly lit hallway stretched before me, torches lining its walls. I knew it well. Had raced down it countless times, making the flames dance as I passed. My father’s advisors had scolded me for making too much noise.

Because this was Castle Beldurn, and the hallway led straight to the king’s study.

Cold sweat broke out across my body. My knees loosened, threatening to send me crashing to the ground. Was I…dead? I darted my gaze about, my heart trying to beat from my chest. I couldn’t be dead if my heart was beating. An idea sprang into my head, and I rushed forward and held my hand over one of the torches.

Pain lanced my fingers. I jerked my hand back.

Not dead. Dead people didn’t feel pain. This had to be some kind of magic. Another blood rite. Maybe Laurent had sent me home? Was that even possible?

Masculine voices drifted down the hall. “…what has to be done, Your Grace.”

Rolund.

I rushed toward the study. The voices grew louder, the words clearer. Rolund’s deep baritone spilled through a crack in the study door. “I understand, Crasor, but I want to be absolutely certain.”

My breath caught, and I sank into the shadows of the stone arch carved around the thick door. Rolund was speaking to the Prelate of the Brotherhood. Crasor never left the Tower of the Mind. Except for tonight, apparently.