Page 37 of Last of Her Name

“Soldier, that was an order!” Zhar snaps.

Pol blinks, then looks at her. “Stacia—Anya—is free to do as she likes. As the Leonova heir, she is the one in charge here, not you.”

A look as cold as stone crosses Zhar’s face. “You are on my base now, and my rules will be followed. The princess’s safety is our first priority, and if she won’t let us protect her, she will bemadeto comply. Anya, you will stand down.”

“No.” I look at Pol. “If Riyan isn’t safe here, then we’re leaving. Now. All three of us.”

Pol’s eyes flicker to me. All the color has left his face.

“We tried it your way,” I whisper to him. “Now it’s my turn. Pol,please.”

The next moment that passes seems like an eternity.

Where does Pol’s true heart lie? With these Loyalists and their cause—or with me? As a heartbeat passes between us, I see that question weighing in his eyes.

Then he lets out a breath, his chest collapsing, and I know he’s reached a decision.

“Stacia,” he murmurs. “Get back on the ship.”

I stare at him, my heart unfolding with relief.

He’s mine. He’s still mine.

“Don’t do this, soldier,” Zhar warns.

“Stacia, go!” Pol shouts. He turns—then collapses, knees hitting the ground, tilting sideways with a look of confusion.

By the time I realize that Zhar has shot him, Pol is sprawled on the rock floor, blood spreading in a dark pool around him.

“It’s so beautiful.”

“That means it’s poisonous, Stace. Don’t touch it.”

“You’re not my boss!”

“You’re seven and I’m eight and I say it’s poison.”

“And I say you’re a bossy grouch.”

“Stacia, no! Stop!”

The memory is so bright it’s like I’m standing inside a holo, watching it play out all over again. I remember how the air smelled of wine that day, even though we were miles from the vineyard. The wind swept the heady scent over the forested hills. It chased us through the slinke trees, me leading, Pol following, as usual. It was just me and him, exploring the pastel hills, arguing every step of the way. Rivals in all things: For dibs on the swing. For the last cookie. For my mother’s attention.

I picked the flower, just to spite Pol.

He’d been right, of course. He usually was. The poison caused a reaction, and in moments my throat closed up and I could barely breathe. Pol picked me up and ran the whole way home, me bouncing in his arms. A mile from the house he twisted his ankle, but I didn’t find out about that until later, because he didn’t let it slow him down.

Pol saved my life that day.

And he was only eight years old. That was four years before he would make a vow to protect the girl he thought was a princess. He saved me for no other reason than that he was my friend.

When I see him fall in front of Lilyan Zhar, it’s like my heart is torn from my chest.

I know I’m screaming, but I don’t hear it. I can’t hear anything over the roar in my ears. My knee bursts with pain; dimly I realize I fell forward, driving it into the ground. My nails dig into the stone floor. Someone grabs me. I shove them away, crawling toward Pol, turning him over, his head in my lap. I rock as I hold him, shaking my head, murmuring his name. My fingers threaded through his hair, I lean over to press my forehead to his.

His eyes are shut, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. I can’t find a pulse, can’t see his chest rise for breath. I shake him but he doesn’t stir. His dark curls spread across my lap, and one of his horns digs into my leg.

“Help him!” I scream. “Someone help him!”