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HENRIK

Pranmore looksup from his journal when I step through the door, his face softening with sympathy. I must look as wretched as I feel.

“What is the reasonable price of peace?” I ask, glad to find him alone. “How much is a man expected to give for it?”

He closes his journal as he studies me with solemn eyes. After several seconds, he rises. “I have a blend of tea that’s soothing. Let me make you a cup—”

I catch his arm, stilling him. “Answer me as a Woodmore and not a friend. What is peace worth?”

“Peace is priceless.” His brow knits. “What value can you place upon harmony, serenity, and safety? Peace is noble. It’s a husband free to earn a living, confident he’ll return to his wife and children when his job is done. It’s a mother sending her son to play instead of to battle, knowing he’ll come back covered in dirt and not blood. It’s neighbors helping neighbors and a just monarchy watching over them all. What shouldn’t we give up for such a future?”

“What about truth?” I study him, reading his face. “Should we give up truth for peace?”

My friend’s eyes narrow, and he doesn’t answer right away. He’s conflicted.

As am I.

“Is this about Clover and Lawrence’s wedding?” he asks. “Do you feel you’re betraying your heart?”

“No,” I say heavily. “I have come to terms with my fate.”

I’m bitter and jaded, but that’s not what this is about.

“Then what is it?”

“If I ask for help, will you give it?”

His frown deepens. “Even if I hadn’t sworn a life debt.”

With a heavy sigh, I nod. “Then I will return later.”

“Henrik, wait—”

Pranmore’s confused questions follow me out the door, but I ignore them and walk into the hall.

Camellia’s guards let me enter her quarters without question. The princess’s ladies are present, as always, clustered on the settees near the window. They used to be proud and lovely, but now they live in a constant state of fear.

Rose looks up from her embroidery, her mouth working as if she wants to say something. But then she looks back at the swatch of cloth in her lap and pierces the needle into the fabric once more.

I knock on Camellia’s door, staring at the grain in the oak until her soft voice invites me to come inside.

Though it’s the middle of the morning, the room is dark. For the last week and a half, Camellia has existed in this shadowed space, keeping the drapes drawn during the day—shutting out the spring sunshine like a wraith.

But the muted light that penetrates the heavy curtains is enough to see by, and I make my way to Camellia’s chair. The princess watches me, her eyes trained on my face.

I kneel before her, fighting the beast that’s taken up residence in my chest. It coaxes me to kill Camellia, urging me to take out my wrath upon her. It mocks me, begging me to defy my king and steal his bride before they can marry. It wants retribution for every injustice I’ve suffered, and the only payment it desires is the anguished cries of my enemies.

It’s a bloodthirsty monster, a twisted sickness, and it exists only in my head. Day and night, it torments me, growing louder each day we march closer to the wedding.

And now the wedding is here. Lawrence and Clover marry this evening.

“Am I not enough for you?” I ask after I gather my thoughts.

Startled, Camellia’s hand falls to my head. I flinch, but she doesn’t notice. She strokes my hair for just a few seconds before she pulls back. “What kind of question is that?”

I look up, meeting her eyes. “I’ve stayed by your side, just as you asked, and yet you’re still practicing your dark magic.”