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“I know you mean well, Minnow, but you are interrupting my perfectly planned . . . plans. Really, you need to—”

“I’m not leaving.”

I set down my dagger and tug at the pins holding my crown in place. If I could use one of them to pick the locks . . .

“Vasalie,” Anton says again. “As much as I appreciate the view—and truly, I do—I wonder if perhaps you might want to reconsider your rescue attire, being that it’s little more than a negligee . . .”

“A negligee not unlike the slip of a thing you had me wear in Philam,” I point out.

“Hardly counts when I didn’t get to examine it properly. Speaking of, how was the gown?”

The performance, then King Illian’s announcement . . . Anton doesn’t know. I consider where to begin, how to convey the enormity of it, but his eyes widen at the sound of steps. “Vasalie, there’s a pendant around my neck. Take it off, quickly. Look for the nearest source of light—”

The door flies open, rattling on its hinges.

I startle, the pin slipping from my grasp as guards spill into the room—far more than I can count. I’m wrenched away from Anton. He yells my name, pulling against his fetters, but it’s no use—

A guard lurches forward, plants a fist into Anton’s side.

Another, another.

“He is a Crown, ” I rasp, thrashing against the hands now clamped on my arms. “You will regret the day you laid a hand on him!”

“Is that so?”

The voice is cool, unbothered. I know who it is before the guards force me around to meet his gaze.

Illian’s crimson waistcoat reaches his knees, brushing against his boots as he strides into the room. Rubies glint from his crown, red like the blood staining my fingertips. His gaze sails over me and he clucks his tongue in distaste. “Filthy. We’ll need you cleaned up for your next task.”

Task? After what I did to the flags? Did the Crowns see, and not care? But the warning was clear. They couldn’t have ignored it, and yet—

“Ah yes, the message you left us,” Illian drawls. “Very clever, Vasalie. Unfortunately for you, my men removed the flags for safekeeping against the coming storm before the Crowns boarded their ships.” His lips curl.

My throat tightens; it hurts to breathe. I will every ounce of fury into my voice. “If you think I’ll do any more of your tasks, you might as well kill me now.”

He lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh, but it’s too easy, don’t you see?

Deny me, and my brother suffers for it. Perhaps I’ll strap the blade to your hand and make you end him yourself.

” He bends, snatching my glass dagger from the floor, then levels his gaze on Anton.

“It’s poetic, really. To be killed with your own blade. ”

Cold fear seizes my chest. I strain against the vicelike grip on my arms, but Anton’s voice cuts through my anger.

“Very sinister, brother,” he says brightly, as if a bead of blood isn’t blooming from the split in his lip.

“We are all so very impressed. And terrified, of course. Though if I were you, I would recommend a bit less condescension around the eyes if you’re going for the ‘careless, all-powerful’ ensemble. ”

“Your tongue won’t free you from this one, Anton.”

“No, really? And here I thought I’d just lick myself free.”

A strain of annoyance tightens Illian’s face, but he dismisses the comment and approaches me. Like always, he halts but a breath away, hand poised as if to touch me, as if he longs to graze his knuckles along the soft skin of my cheek.

“Soon,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret. “One last task, and this will all be over.” The cold tip of his largest ring skims my cheekbone, but his fingers never do. “But the sun has not yet set on Morta’s performance this evening.”

He backs away, and the guard behind me releases his hold on my arms. Aemon foists a wad of dark fabric into my hands.

An outfit. My eyes shift to Illian’s. “I don’t understand.”

“A little gift from Annais, for the return of her son.” Illian draws something from his waistcoat, and I stiffen. “This,” he says, “is the katar you will use to deliver King Rurik to Morta’s Lair tomorrow night. What do you think, Vasalie? Your very last task.”

A weapon, to kill King Rurik with.

A weapon, to go with the outfit.

That outfit.

“You want to frame Razam,” I breathe. It’s the garb the queen’s sons wear, down to the sun emblem etched onto the shoulder.

Illian shrugs. “Someone has to take the blame.”

“Vasalie, don’t,” Anton says, his mask faltering. “Whatever he says, he is lying. He cannot hurt me—”

“By the souls, can someone shove a cloth in his mouth?” Illian spits, and the guard closest to him forces a gag between his lips. I yank fruitlessly against the one holding me.

I shake with rage. “You want Rurik dead? Do it yourself.” I try to thrust the fabric into his hands, but he backs away. I toss it on the floor. “You’re a damned coward.”

“Do this,” Illian says, unbothered, “and upon completion, and full surrender, I will show my mercy once again. Instead of ending my brother’s life, like I should, I will simply banish him to the deserts of Mor.

He won’t be able to return to Miridran, but he will live. Preferable to death, wouldn’t you say?”

“How do I know you won’t slit his throat the moment I return?”

“Because I do not wish for you to hate me for the rest of our days,” he says, a sickening tenderness in his gaze. “I cared for you once, you know.”

“Until you threw me away—”

“It’s a generous offer, Vasalie. Two lives for the price of one. King Rurik for Anton. His freedom, and yours, to make up for the years you lost. Consider it a gift.” He pauses. “Of course, if anything should happen to me, Aemon’s first order is to kill him.”

If I were my old self—that lonely, hopeful girl I once was, desperate for his approval, desperate to make something of myself—I might have believed him.

Consumed by darkness, his heart a snare,

Those around Him will remain unaware.

But I am not unaware.

My breath echoes in my ears.

If I do this, he wins. My father wins. And how many would later die at their hands? How many will he slaughter in a war? But if I refuse, Anton dies, along with Miridran’s hope for a better king.

My father deserves every foul thing in this world. Every bit of pain and suffering he inflicted on me and Emilia. I should deny him what he wants most: a crown. Power—and not just over Brisendale, but the whole of the north. And Illian—

I can’t let him make me a murderer. I can’t let him have this victory over me.

Because that’s what he wants—victory. Leverage. He could have someone else play this role, but he’s decided it must be me yet again.

Then there’s the prophecy. Should I aid them in this, I might as well damn the world. I wouldn’t just be complicit, I would be the catalyst.

I should let Anton die, and I should die with him.

“My patience wanes, Vasalie,” Illian says.

Anton is yelling against his gag, inaudible as it is. But I know what he wants. He is telling me to refuse. He is telling me to sacrifice him.

Except, now that I watch him, I’m not so sure.

There’s defiance in that green-gray gaze, but something else, too. The gleam of an idea. A spark of hope. And somehow, I think I understand.

He dips his head in a single nod, as if to reassure me. Yes, Vasalie. You know what I ask.

And I do. I sense it as if he’s whispered it in my ear.

“Kill him,” Illian says, patience discarded. “I’m done waiting.”

“No,” I concede. “Keep him alive, and I will do it.”