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“My father once said that Miridran is like an evergreen tree. We remain strong season to season, but to do so, we must shed our weakest branches—those brittle with mold and corruption. We witnessed such an occasion last week with the heartbreaking news of Estienne’s deception and illegitimate claim, yet I am afraid I have even more disturbing news.

Our host, and my younger brother, Anton Orvere, Crown of East Miridran, is not so benevolent as I believed. ”

Murmurs spread, yet Illian barrels on, “As much as I wish to deny it, I have learned that he has used the Gathering as a way to plot against us all.” A guard approaches, handing him a bundle of letters. Illian holds them up, each one sealed with a pool of emerald-green wax.

And the imprint of Anton’s seal.

“We intercepted a series of correspondences from Anton himself to Queen Sadira. Razam intends to cease all weapons trades with Brisendale,” he says, “and Anton intends to replace them with newly forged weapons from sea glass—weapons he has thus far restricted to his own use. Not only has he undermined a ten-year trade agreement we signed into operation during the last Gathering, but he has since transported illegal weaponry. Such astonishing findings have left me no choice but to expose his schemes.”

I expel a breath as if I’ve been pierced by a lance. Two Crowns—no, three—spring from their seats, accompanied by guards. The rest of the audience follows, murmurs and shouts erupting like a hot spring. “Let us see the letters,” I hear someone shout. “Hand them over!”

The Queen of Razam sweeps upward, a devastating fury darkening her gaze, but two of her sons clasp her arms, restraining her.

Illian disperses the letters among the crowd. “All their plans, laid out before you,” he says. “Anton has been arming Razam behind our backs; see for yourself.”

“No,” I say under my breath. My palms are hot, shaking. Speak out, something inside me begs, but my word will mean nothing here. I am as insignificant as dust. I look to Copelan, but he’s occupied, shuffling the other performers onto boats. As if at any minute this island could sink.

The letters seem to multiply. How many had he forged? The King of Brisendale bounds into sight, grabbing one and unfolding it. I’m sure it is every bit as incriminating as Illian suggested.

Because Illian wrote it.

“The entire Gathering has been a farce,” Illian calls over the noise.

“By bringing you here, Anton was learning your secrets. His entire palace is riddled with hidden tunnels; my guards came across them just today.” The liar.

“We’ve been scouring them for the last hour.

I plan to open them up to you all so that you might witness them for yourself. ”

It’s like a string of tension has snapped.

A cacophony of voices fights for attention—some shouting for Anton’s head, others for his presence.

The Gathering is in pandemonium. Guards form blockades, eager to protect their Crowns.

I spot Aemon and Sana at the edge of the stage, tracking my movements.

When Crowns divide, and nations collide,

Blood will run, high as tides.

“Let Anton speak for himself!” says Prince Raiden. “He owes us an explanation. We deserve to hear it from his own lips—”

“He absconded upon learning that he was discovered, I’m afraid. However, we have taken the whole of his court into custody until he’s found to answer for his schemes.”

I stop seeing, breathing. I don’t believe Illian. He found Anton—found him through the tunnels.

“This should come as no surprise,” General Stova says. “Has he not been under Her Majesty’s skirts ever since the almost-war?”

“A war is what he wants!” says someone else.

“Let the queen answer for this accusation!”

Queen Sadira’s seven sons surround her, tulwars drawn. But she pushes through them now. “You are all fools if you believe this nonsense.”

I have to do something. Another glance at my guards tells me they’re momentarily distracted by the mayhem surrounding the queen, so I snatch the train of my gown, wishing I wish I had time to discard the costume altogether.

Skirting the edge of the island is my best chance at going unseen. I trail around the rocks, blending into the back of the crowd. If I can reach the archway, I could grab a craft and row back to the palace.

I must find Anton.

I’m a few feet from the archway when King Rurik’s voice booms through the dissipating mist from our performance like the growl of thunder.

“We have been deceived for the last time,” he says, silencing the Gathering.

He has that much power, I realize. Few would risk angering him.

Fewer would risk tampering with their trade agreements, provoking his army.

And yet he’s a dead man walking.

I pause at the mouth of the open cave.

“We have had enough of Miridranian turmoil,” he declares.

“Let us settle this once and for all. I may have admired the late king’s intent in following the ways of Razam, but his experiment has been a failure.

Miridran needs one king, not three, and King Illian has proven himself the only honorable candidate. ”

No. He can’t side with them. Rage courses through me as I gaze around, waiting for someone, anyone, who might see through it, but even Prince Raiden, who looks skeptical, holds his tongue.

“The claims against Anton are irrefutable. Illian Orvere, should you choose to ascend to High King, you have Brisendale’s support in full.” He levels a gaze toward the other Crowns; none dare to oppose him. “And that of our army.”

Beside him, my father stands tall, smug, like he’s already made himself a king. Even his silver hair is missing its usual peaked cap, as if awaiting a crown.

His cap. He must have removed it, perhaps during the show.

An idea strikes me. My words would mean nothing to them, but words aren’t the only way to speak.

There might be a way I can warn King Rurik that his general is conspiring with Illian.

In the shadow of the cave walls, I go unseen, skimming the edge of the rocks until I’m behind where they had sat during the performance.

And there, in his seat, is my father’s cap. I use the distraction, careful to stay low, and lunge.

I snatch the rough, weather-resistant cap.

“I am honored,” Illian says as others voice their support. “In the wake of everything, truly, I am more than humbled to serve Miridran this way, but only with the support of the Crowns’ Syndicate.”

Slowly, I release the daggers from my crown. It takes me a moment to pry them loose, but they slide free, small and perfectly shaped for my hands.

“We should put it to a vote,” Illian says.

A vote will be pointless, when everyone will back him now that Brisendale does.

“But the queen—”

“Will be served her justice. She will be held and put to trial before the Gathering ends.”

“Lay a hand on her and you will lose it,” Prince Sundar growls, his brothers and guards forming a blockade against the riotous assemblage.

Riveted by the turn of events, no one watches the entrance to the tunnel or the wall of flags, each one strung top-down like a banner. Over my shoulder, I catch sight of Aemon and Sana scouring the stage, wondering where I’ve gone.

The Miridranian and Brisendali flags are next to each other, there in the center, and impossible to miss.

Tucking one dagger into my belt I plunge the other into the Brisendali flag and drag it down, threads ripping apart like a knife tearing through flesh and muscle.

I don’t stop until I split it in two, both ends fluttering in the salty breeze, tapered and torn.

Behind me, King Rurik asks if any oppose the motion.

When no one comes forward, he says, “It is settled, Illian. By vote, by heritage, and by right, the Miridranian throne is yours.”

His role.

His role, that Illian said he’d play. Unknowingly, after my father no doubt whispered into his ear.

I take the same dagger and jam it through my father’s cap.

And with the blade still stuck in its thick wool fabric, I pin it through West Miridran’s flag, directly into Illian’s golden-threaded chalice.