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Heads bowed further, in thanks for merely being allowed to exist in their presence.

“It is our hope that you discuss a way to end this inane war. Governor Sandriel will prove a valuable witness to its destruction.” A slow, horrible scan through the room followed. And Hunt knew their eyes were upon him as they said, “And there are others here who may also provide their testimony.”

There was only one testimony to provide: that the humans were wasteful and foolish, and the war was their fault, their fault, their fault, and must be ended. Must be avoided here at all costs. There was to be no sympathy for the human rebellion, no hearing of the humans’ plight. There was only the Vanir side, the good side, and no other.

Hunt held Rigelus’s dead stare on the central screen. A zap of icy wind through his body courtesy of Sandriel warned him to avert his eyes. He did not. He could have sworn the Head of the Asteri smiled. Hunt’s blood turned to ice, not just from Sandriel’s wind, and he lowered his eyes.

This empire had been built to last for eternity. In more than fifteen thousand years, it had not broken. This war would not be the thing that ended it.

The Asteri said together, “Farewell.” Another small smile from all of them—the worst being Rigelus’s, still directed at Hunt. The screens went dark.

Everyone in the room, the two Governors included, blew out a breath. Someone puked, by the sound and reek from the far corner. Sure enough, a leopard shifter bolted through the doors, a hand over his mouth.

Micah leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the wood table before him. For a moment, no one spoke. As if they all needed to reel themselves back in. Even Sandriel.

Then Micah straightened, his wings rustling, and declared in a deep, clear voice, “I hereby commence this Valbaran Summit. All hail the Asteri and the stars they possess.”

The room echoed the words, albeit half-heartedly. As if everyone remembered that even in this land across the sea from Pangera, so far from the muddy battlefields and the shining crystal palace in a city of seven hills, even here, there was no escaping.

74

Bryce tried not to dwell on the fact that Hunt and the world knew what and who she really was. At least the press hadn’t caught wind of it, for whatever small mercy that was.

As if being a bastard princess meant anything. As if it said anything about her as a person. The shock on Hunt’s face was precisely why she hadn’t told him.

She’d torn up Jesiba’s check, and with it the centuries of debts.

None of it mattered now anyway. Hunt was gone.

She knew he was alive. She’d seen the news footage of the Summit’s opening procession. Hunt had looked just as he had before everything went to shit. Another small mercy.

She’d barely noticed the others arriving: Jesiba, Tharion, her sire, her brother … No, she’d just kept her eyes on that spot in the crowd, those gray wings that had now regrown.

Pathetic. She was utterly pathetic.

She would have done it. Would have gladly traded places with Hunt, even knowing what Sandriel would do to her. What Pollux would do to her.

Maybe it made her an idiot, as Ruhn said. Naïve.

Maybe she was lucky to have walked out of the Comitium lobby still breathing.

Maybe being attacked by that kristallos was payment for her fuckups.

She’d spent the past few days looking through the laws to see if there was anything to be done for Hunt. There wasn’t. She’d done the only two things that might have granted him his freedom: offered to buy him, and offered herself in his stead.

She didn’t believe Hunt’s bullshit last words to her. She would have said the same had she been in his place. Would have been as nasty as she could, if it would have gotten him to safety.

Bryce sat at the front desk in the showroom, staring at the blank computer screen. The city had been quiet these past two days. As if everyone’s attention was on the Summit, even though only a few of Crescent City’s leaders and citizens had gone.

She’d watched the news recaps only to catch another glimpse of Hunt—without any luck.

She slept in his room every night. Had put on one of his T-shirts and crawled between the sheets that smelled of him and pretended he was lying in the dark beside her.

An envelope with the Comitium listed as its return address had arrived at the gallery three days ago. Her heart had thundered as she’d ripped it open, wondering if he’d been able to get a message out—

The white opal had fallen to the desk. Isaiah had written a reserved note, as if aware that every piece of mail was read:

Naomi found this on the barge. Thought you might want it back.