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Anton drags a hand over his mouth, then breathes a sigh. “Is he aware of your whereabouts right now? Tell me the truth.”

“I have not told him about the tunnels,” I say, “nor do I plan to.”

He regards me with such a probing intensity that I feel as if he’s making geometry of me, measuring each response. For him, it’s nothing new.

Then he picks up my wrist and slides a key into my shackles. As they fall off, he says, “Follow me. And please, don’t try to run.”

The teacup quivers in my hand.

It’s an effervescent floral blend made from a basilica bloom, or so a servant told me, known for its revitalizing properties.

Even so, the mere sip I took sends it back up my throat in an embarrassing display, my stomach whirling with nerves while I wait awkwardly on a divan in Anton’s antechamber.

It’s a spacious room awash in color—emerald curtains, ultramarine pillows tasseled in carmine.

A plush, vibrant rug. Dichroic, cathedral windows reveal a granulated, prismatic moon.

But even the ceiling, with its azure glasswork, is not a reprieve from my addled mind.

He knows I work for Illian.

After fetching himself a drink and muttering something to someone outside the door, he sinks onto the cushion next to me, unabashed at our proximity. Propping an ankle on his knee, he swirls the liquid in his glass with steady hands. He is the Anton I recognize now, all confidence and ease.

He still hasn’t said a word about what he saw, though.

“Tell me why you were in my tunnels.”

I breathe through my nose and exhale slowly, summoning any ounce of courage I can muster. “I came to plead on Laurent’s and Marian’s behalf.” I hate the tremor in my voice, hate the way it shakes.

“To what end? Did you not stand before every Crown and condemn them? The damage is done, Miss Moran.”

“They’re innocent,” I say, resisting the urge to scoot away from him. “You—you have to know that.”

“And what proof do you have?” His eyes track my arms as I hug my own stomach.

He already senses the truth, but he wants me to admit it.

I’d known I’d have to give it to him when I’d sought him out, but even so, fear numbs my tongue.

My father deserves a knife in the chest, but I won’t be the wielder of that blade should I admit to poisoning Gustav.

I will never have justice or revenge, much less my freedom.

But that freedom, if I managed it, would be haunted by the ghosts of those I hurt. I cannot shove them in the closet of my mind and forget them. I tried that with Emilia. It didn’t work.

“Miss Moran.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing an inhale. This—it’s the moment I lose everything. He will throw me in his dungeon and forget me, or take what little life I have left.

The truth leaves my lips in a broken, defeated whisper. “I am your poisoner.”

Agonizing seconds pass, and Anton says nothing.

I glance up to find him skating a thumb across his bottom lip. “My brother.”

My gaze falls, my silence damning enough.

“Would you be willing to testify to clear their names?”

For you, Emilia. It’s all I have left to give. “I would.”

“You can guess the consequences,” Anton says, leaning forward. “Even then? Do I have your word?”

“Yes, but they might not believe me.” Illian will expose my time in prison for a murder he will make them believe I committed, and my admission will mean nothing. “I have a past in West Miridran, and he will make it known.”

“My brother’s hold over you,” Anton mumbles, sucking on his teeth. “What has he promised you in return?”

The lump in my throat is like a rock. Still, I push it down, forcing out my rasp of an answer. “My life, Your Majesty. My exoneration.”

My gaze dips, catching my reflection in the surface of my tea. Disgusted, I set down the saucer before tucking my hands in my lap. Anton is silent, the seconds stretching between us.

“My brother’s plans,” he says finally. “What do you know of them?”

“Nothing. He gives me an order and I obey.”

I steel myself, waiting for him to call his guards, signal my arrest. I await the clamp of steel on my wrists.

“Vasalie,” he says, and I lift my gaze. “I am not going to have you testify before the Crowns. You are right, but whatever your past, it would not matter. My brother would have you slain before you stepped forward.”

“If I do nothing,” I say, heart careening, “Laurent and Marian won’t be absolved. They won’t be set free . . .”

A smirk presses on the corner of Anton’s lips. He eases back in his seat, sliding an arm across the back of the chaise, looking far too at ease. “A good thing I’ve taken care of them, then.”

“You—what?”

He squints out the window, then holds up his fingers, ticking them off. “In an hour, two at most, a well-paid mercenary will conveniently attack the prison cart in Philam and set them free. They will be directed to a personal escort, who will safeguard them both.”

So many words and emotions tangle together in my chest, and all I can manage is a scratchy “Thank you.”

It was desperation that brought me here. Desperation—and the small thread of hope that he disliked his brother enough, that he was angry enough about what just happened, at the audacity of the general, that he would be willing to help them. The relief is like a breath of fresh air.

“Laurent is far too valuable, as is Marian. They will continue to work for me back in East Miridran. We will simply have to be more discreet for now. As for you,” he says then, and my spine straightens, “you have betrayed my trust and the trust of my friends. Not to mention the whole of the Gathering.”

I can’t help but drop his gaze.

“But you came to me, willing to take their place. For that, you have also earned my respect.”

My head pops up at that. But I dig my hands into my cloak.

I do not deserve respect when I was only attempting to clean up the mess I made.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “What will you do with me?”

“Nothing, at the moment.”

I blink at him. “You’re letting me go? After what I admitted?”

“Ah, you mean your actions at my banquet, where you consumed half the poison yourself? One could say it was an effort to exculpate yourself.” He leans in, holding my gaze. “Or one could say you saved his life.”

“I still hurt him. And I will hurt others if you don’t arrest me. I could do something worse.”

“So help me,” he says. “When my brother gives you a task, tell me. And when this is over, Miss Moran, I will find a way to help you in return.”

Help. He would help me? My heart constricts as hope inches in.

Part of me wants to break down and tell him everything.

Who I am, where I came from. Everything I’ve seen so far.

The murder Illian would say I committed.

But if Anton knew that, and if he didn’t believe my claim to innocence . . . I hug my arms around myself.

And then I remember that the word of a Crown means nothing at all. But if Anton is letting me go . . .

I could still avenge Emilia and expose my father when it’s all over.

I run my nails along the inside of my palm. All that matters is that I did what I came to do. Laurent is safe, and so is Marian.

“Something is happening, Miss Moran. Can’t you feel it?” Anton says. “It’s like a current under the island, slowly sifting the sand from beneath our feet. Gustav spoke of a prophecy earlier tonight. Do you remember?”

“You stopped him from telling me what it was.”

Rightly so, perhaps. He had just realized I was working for Illian.

He procures a piece of parchment from the folds of his cloak, worrying it between the pads of his fingers.

“The elder prophets of Mirin sought a meeting with the Syndicate, then went missing rather conveniently,” he says.

“Fortunately, one of my men attained the message they were trying to relay before my brother abducted them. He was detained as well but managed to escape. And he claims to have seen a tendril of fire above the mouth of the one who spoke it.”

He places the parchment in my lap.

Laurent had mentioned the prophets and their capture, but I was so distracted that I had forgotten until Gustav warned of a prophecy—the first in so long.

And the fire . . . It means it’s confirmed—a true message from the Fates, if I dare believe it.

I unfurl the paper in my hands, a peculiar darkness settling in my chest when I read the words.

From Beauty foretold, a trap unfolds,

A return to the living, a plight of souls,

Eyes of shadows, glazed like mist,

Whose touch will kill, and lips will kiss,

Consumed by darkness, His heart a snare,

Those around Him will remain unaware.

I pause, glancing up. Anton’s lips are a tight, thin line. He motions for me to keep reading.

Beware, beware, His time is near,

Through one of three sons, He shall appear,

A jewel in His palm, a path divine,

With the Fate of Morta, He will align,

When Crowns divide, and nations collide,

Blood will run, high as tides.

Ice slips up my spine; even my bones grow cold. Beside me, Anton shifts closer. “Back to the top,” he says, pointing at the parchment, a sweep of hair falling across his cheek. “Beauty foretold. A return to the living.”

He tilts his head at me, expectant.

My voice feels distant as I say, “Eremis.”

“Gustav believes it will be Eremis’s soul corrupted by the Fate of Morta, sent to carry out her wishes, while others in my council think it will be a new Eremis, a different spirit darkened by Morta’s touch.” He jerks his chin. “What else?”

My throat bobs. I trace my thumb along the parchment.

“Beware, beware, His time is near,” I read aloud. “Through one of three sons, He will appear.”

One of three sons.

One of three brothers.

Again, I meet Anton’s gaze. He sips from his glass, assessing me over the rim. Who is it, Vasalie? he seems to ask.

You, I want to say. A return to the living? I know the rumors; they say he, too, cheated death. And there’s his oldest brother. I think of Estienne’s cruelty, the drip drip drip of vengeance.

But I know it isn’t Anton or Estienne, because one line stares back at me, stark as a full, unfazed moon.

A jewel in His palm.

The jewel is me. I am the Jewel of Illian’s court. I am held within his palm. He is my prison. Should he close his fingers and squeeze, I would crack in two.

The prophets he captured prove it further.

Why else would Illian kidnap them? Why keep the truth from his own brothers?

He heard the prophecy, saw the flame, and knew it was about him.

Then I remember something else: Morta’s statues.

There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

They haunt Illian’s palace as if it were a graveyard.

But this assumes I believe the prophecy, or the man who shares it with me. Believing in anything feels like offering something I’m not ready to give.

And yet that line, the jewel it refers to . . .

There are coincidences, Emilia had said when I asked her how she knew where to put her faith. Then there are revelations that hit you so hard they leave a dent on your soul. Those are truths, my love.

So I speak my truth. “Illian serves the Fate of Morta.”

“If he doesn’t yet, I suspect he will soon. And regardless of the prophecy, it’s clear his intentions are destructive to Miridran. Help me minimize the damage. Please, Vasalie.”

It’s then that I realize he’s begging me.

Me.

But what could I do? There are times when I can barely stand.

Times when walking, let alone dancing, feels like my bones are splintering one by one.

I’m so exhausted by the effort required to stay upright.

I am hanging by a thread—one single thread that keeps me from lying down and never lifting my head again.

More so, my neck is noosed by Illian’s leash, cinching ever tighter.

I am caged, wounded. And even if I weren’t, how could I ever trust Anton?

He paints himself a hero, yes, but Illian was once the hero, too.

I can’t forget the rumors of his Glory Court, the women that never return—including Copelan’s partner, I’m willing to bet.

Not to mention his lechery, his constant carousing. The copious expenditure of wealth.

My words are tired, despite the kernel of anger glowing within me. “I suppose I’ll end up in your dungeon if I refuse?”

Anton rises, then comes to kneel before me.

“I won’t force you,” he says quietly. “But I will watch you.” I think of the tunnels, the mosaics. “If you try to harm anyone else on his behalf, believe me when I say I will make it my personal quest to remove you from Miridran at any cost.”

Then he stands, straightens his cloak, as if he didn’t just beg for my help and threaten me within the span of a few breaths. “It seems we are finished for the time being.” He slides an open palm into my line of sight.

Tentatively, I take it. His hand engulfs mine, and when he pulls me up, he tugs until I stumble toward him, his breath dancing over my cheeks. “You can choose to be his victim, Vasalie. Or, when you walk from these halls, you can deny him the permanence of such a gift.”

It’s difficult not to stagger back at that.

I want to argue, to make him understand that I could never be anything else. How could I? The constant knot of pain tightens inside me, and I gulp, grasping for the relief of knowing Laurent and Marian are safe. That I am, too.

And yet—I came here tonight at great risk to myself. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it did feel like reclaiming a splinter of something Illian took from me.

Anton paces to the pane in the wall leading to the tunnels and slides it open. “Should you find yourself with information that could save another life, you know where to find me.”

When I reach its threshold, I pause, finding myself offering him a single nod.

Because if I’ve learned anything today, it’s that I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I can’t grow numb to it like I thought, not when I think of Emilia. What she did for me.

And whether Anton is a scoundrel or a saint, there’s something about him. Something in his voice, the way he speaks, the fire warming the cool of his gaze—that makes me want to fight.