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An announcement is made for a celebratory reception in the Dome Hall. The courtyard empties. Once again, I’m tucked against Illian’s side. His eyes roam over me as he wets his lips, and then, without a word, he shepherds me away, steering us at an unusually quick pace.

I tug against him, trying to slow him down. My effort is ignored.

“I hope you know what you’ve done,” I hiss. “The general is a monster and you’ve just sharpened his teeth.”

“Oh really,” Illian says idly. “And how do you know that?”

“I—rumors,” I say, though my voice quavers with the lie. “Everyone speaks of his bloodlust.” Illian may be despicable, but if I could only make him realize my father is worse . . . “Whatever it is you are doing, he will betray you.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

Again, I tug against him, but his thick-gloved grip is tight. “Why—why are you doing this?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, but it isn’t until we reach the Dome Hall’s wide double doors that he says, “A wise man once told me that patience is the only road that leads to true power. I have earned this tenfold.”

“Killing and conspiring isn’t earning.”

“You have no idea what I’ve earned, Vasalie. But worry not; I trust you’ll find out soon.”

He yanks me inside the Dome Hall.

It looks different than on the Welcoming night, five and a half short weeks ago that now feel like an eternity.

Long tables fill its length, flush with flowers and votive candles, their small flames unwavering in the still air.

The sky itself is pomegranate red, the sunset caught between layers of clouds.

The music is jaunty and light while appetizers are divvied about. At every columned interval stands a Brisendali guard, so many that even the courtiers have begun to take notice.

Yet Illian seems far from concerned. I still don’t understand how he came to trust the general, or how they connected in the first place. Trepidation slithers underneath my skin, setting me even more on edge. There’s a missing piece to this wretched puzzle, one I can’t seem to solve.

Illian leans in. “When that veil comes off, you will smile, eat what is placed before you, greet anyone who speaks to you with a polite nod, and nothing more. You will leave the talking to me.”

I merely grit my teeth. He ferries me to a long, curved table at the far end, where the stage divider used to be. It’s even more ornamented than the others—a sprawling candelabra set between roses; scallops of silk that fall in waves to the floor.

My father and his queen have yet to arrive, but their chairs are marked by even more ribbons, right in the center. Next to ours.

Other Crowns are directed into the seats on either side of us, separated from their courts, oblivious to the string of events that led to this moment.

How I long to tell them, to shout the atrocities before the whole of the Gathering, and yet if I do . . .

One wrong move, and he will pay.

My father and Queen Aesir parade through the double doors. I study the new Brisendali queen in all her piles of blue silk and decadence and wonder how long she might survive.

When finally they take their seats, my father is, of course, placed directly on Illian’s left.

One seat removed from me.

Everyone with a veil removes it. Hesitantly, I untwine the pins banding it to my circlet, tugging a few curls loose as I do so in hopes of hiding my eyes—eyes that he might recognize without glitter and kohl.

Slabs of lamb garnished with rosemary are delivered onto our plates, along with a hearty loaf of bread, cheese, and conserve—a common meal back home.

Again, I can’t help but sneak another glance at Aesir, hoping to find even a modicum of regret.

Her father is dead, and yet she is as content as ever in her cerulean dress.

Cerulean, just like her father’s glass eye.

Just like the diadem set into her crown—

That diadem. A large, glinting sapphire, but not just any sapphire, no.

The eye looks just the way it did that night under the light of a waning moon as Rurik gazed up at me, blood encircling his throat like a torque. Bile spills into my mouth and I grab my napkin to cover it, swallowing until the surge of nausea subsides.

“Eat,” Illian says.

I glare. My place setting is bare of anything sharp, even a fork. “And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?”

“You have hands. Unless you would like me to feed it to you . . .”

Hot fury burns my cheeks. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to keep the food in my stomach for long. I’m tempted to eat too fast, then vomit it onto his lap.

But then, remembering Anton, I pry a piece of bread loose and slide it between my teeth, swallowing against a wave of revulsion. Satisfied, Illian angles away, his attention on the guests now offering gifts to the new queen. I scoop a few bites into my napkin and ball it up.

Desert is served soon after—plump peaches doused in cream—during which a small troupe dances, ribbons unspooling from their hands. No one pays them much heed; it is but an idle show with an idle tune, set dressing and no more. Even the torches dim ever so softly, a quilt of stars now visible.

The moon is the real spectacle, however, so large it fills an entire arch from my point of view.

I turn my attention toward the show nonetheless. Dancers bound in front of us, and when they pass, my eyes latch on a dark shape between the columns near the back of the room.

By the look of it, Copelan sees me, too. Recognizes me.

I wonder what he thinks.

He witnessed what became of me in those tunnels, heard every word. And here I am now, at the left-hand side of the very same king, dressed in his silks, flush in his jewels. Like a cosseted princess. An appointed concubine.

I try to read his expression, only to wish I hadn’t.

Disgust. He flames with it.

Even so, I don’t know why it hurts so badly when he turns his back on me and leaves.

I force my eyes down to my plate and fall into the trance of my own thoughts.

Nobles flit by, wishing the queen and her husband long life and prosperity.

Dishes are cleared, replaced with fresh, crystalline glasses glistening with champagne, but it all passes in a smudge of motion until finally the clink of a toast rattles me back to the present.

It takes me a moment to realize my father and Queen Aesir are standing.

Aesir, for her part, delivers her oration, thanking their guests before holding a moment of silence for the passing of her father.

“This season has been more trying than we could have anticipated,” she goes on.

“Yet you have wept with us, mourned with us.

You have raged with us over the injustices brought about by those who wish to disrupt our hard-won peace.

“But where there was once mourning, there shall be joy and triumph.” She lifts her chin to my father, who lingers at her side.

“My father, the honored King Rurik, was blessed to have such a trusted friend, adviser, and mentor as General Stova, and that blessing continues as we welcome him into our family. As such, the title of consort will never fit, and so I am pleased to announce his coronation upon our return to Brisendale.”

Because it’s the only way he was willing to help her dispose of her father.

Not king consort but king, with all a king’s rights and power. The reins of the country, handed over like a scepter.

If the Crowns are surprised, they hide it well, offering a polite sweep of cheers. A smile forms on his lips, broader than I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t suit him.

Or perhaps that’s what bothers me—the genuineness of it.

He knows he’s won.

I clench my fists, releasing a new promise under my breath.

If I cannot defeat him in life, I will find him in death.

The general drops a kiss on his bride’s lips, knocks back his drink, and signals for another glass. And just when I think he’s about to take a seat, he says, “Please rise, all, for we have one more cause to celebrate on this joyous evening.”

Then he turns straight to me.