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He pulls his eyes away from Camellia to face me. “It is.”

“Have you come to send me back, Woodmore?” she asks, quirking an ebony brow.

He looks at her, saying nothing.

“I’m afraid I won’t go quietly.” She rises and pulls her cloak to the side, revealing Lawrence’s prone form. “Not when I’ve finally won my throne.”

Clover gasps.

“He’s not dead.” Camellia turns her obsidian eyes on Clover. “Not yet.”

“What have you done to him?”

Camellia looks at Lawrence impassively. “It’s a slow form of paralysis.”

Clover begins to move forward, but I extend my hand, blocking her path.

“He has two minutes left before his heart seizes, give or take,” the princess says, rolling him to the side with her foot and reclaiming her throne. “It took you so long to get here.”

“What do you want, Camellia?” I ask.

“Would you like me to release him?” She lifts her witch eyes to mine. “I’ll return him to you.”

“At what price?” I demand, fully prepared to sacrifice myself.

The princess smiles. “It’s trivial, really.”

“Camellia,” I warn through clenched teeth.

“Yes, I’ll return Lawrence. I’ll even hand over this lovely crown.” She lets her eyes drift to Clover, and her lips quirk into a delighted smile. “I’ve thought long and hard, and I’ve decided I only want one thing in return—your honor. That annoying thread of heart that’s so deeply woven through the tapestry of your being. Your one and only flaw.”

“How can I give you my honor?” I demand.

Camellia lists her head to the side, her depthless eyes glittering. “Kill Clover. I want to see her blood staining your hands. I want her murder to be what makes you a monster.”

My heart clenches painfully. Beside me, Bartholomew snarls. Clover stands very still.

“King and kingdom,” Camellia continues. “Peace, prosperity, and glory…or a woman named after a field weed and the demise of an entire continent. Which will it be?”

I draw my sword, intending to attack the princess just to see if she’s corporal enough to kill. But before I’ve even taken a step, Lawrence’s eyes fly open, and he gasps.

“That’s not an option, Henrik.” Camellia looks down at her brother as his face turns red. “Less than a minute now.”

Clover turns to me, her face white with fear. “Henrik…I’m not worth it.”

“No!” Bartholomew cries, looking between Clover and his dying cousin with horror-filled eyes.

“I won’t,” I vow to Clover. “Never.”

“You’re killing your king,” Camellia reminds me, her tone impartial.

Clover grasps the hand that holds my sword, pulling it toward her. So subtly I almost don’t notice, she jerks her head toward the dais, trying to tell me something. “He’s going to die, Henrik.”

“Clover’s right,” Camellia says, sounding mildly impatient now. “No matter what, someone’s blood will be on your hands.”

“Henrik,” Clover begs, trembling as she watches something from the corner of her eye.

And there—I see it now.