“I know this malfetto,” Giulietta says with ice in her voice. “He was a rumored Dagger, a friend to my traitor brother.”

“He was once the greatest consort in your nation,” Maeve replies. “He was found hiding in exile in my country.”

Giulietta stares at her, suspicion plain on her face. Raffaele waits quietly. “I hope you are not starting our first meeting with lies,” she says. “The Beldish love malfettos, while we do not. Why would you give one back to me as a prisoner?”

“You think I’m lying,” Maeve says, her voice even.

“I think you may be playing me for a fool, yes.”

“The Beldish believe that your malfettos, as you call them, are children of the gods, marked by their hands and blessed with their powers. But I know you have been hunting the Daggers,” Maeve tells her. “When we found their leader in our midst, we wanted to bring him back to you. Know the sacrifice I make for you, our customs against yours, for the sake of our joint peace and prosperity.”

Raffaele waits, marveling at Maeve’s calmness.

“He has no powers that can harm you,” Maeve continues. “He is the leader of a society that you despise, but he is alone here. Do you fear a defenseless boy, Giulietta, just because he is marked?”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Raffaele keeps his head down, but from the corner of his eye, he can see Teren’s mouth twisting into a snarl. Giulietta doesn’t seem to react to Maeve’s words. When Raffaele turns his head up to look at her, he finds her looking back. She is admiring his face, and he feels tiny tendrils of attraction coming from her.

Maeve lets out an audible sigh. “I didn’t come here as your enemy, Your Majesty,” she calls out to Giulietta. “My mother has died, and I have taken the throne in grief. You and I are both new rulers. I know our nations have fought for hundreds of years, but I am tired of it. We have gained little from it. And the blood fever has hurt Kenettra deeply.”

Maeve leans forward. “I’ve come here because I want us to develop a new relationship from which we can both benefit. Giulietta, let us talk of how we can open our nations to each other. How we can both prosper again. I am very thankful for the beautiful gift you’ve brought me.” She nods at the stallion. “And I hope you see my gift to you not as something of suspicion, but as a gesture of my good faith.” She motions to Raffaele. “In return, I do humbly ask that you give this malfetto the grace of a trial, if you choose to judge him, and a fair punishment. Or, Your Majesty, perhaps you can pardon him.”

More murmurs from the crowd. Raffaele is awed by such excellent lying. Maeve’s declaration in front of who she knows must be families suffering from the loss of their own malfetto loved ones.

Teren sneers at Maeve. “You cannot ask our queen to show respect for a disgusting dog of a demon.”

At Maeve’s side, Kester places a hand on the hilt of his sword. His Elite energy stirs. Raffaele’s attention shifts first to him, then to Tristan, as he moves ever so slightly. It is the first time Raffaele has ever seen the youngest prince frown—and something in the expression chills Raffaele to his core. Maeve had said that bringing Tristan back from the Underworld increased his strength tenfold. For the first time, Raffaele believes it. Maeve waves a subtle hand, and Tristan stands down.

Teren looks as if he wants to continue, but Giulietta shakes her head once, stopping him. Raffaele takes it in—a small moment of disagreement between the two. He stores the image away.

Finally, Giulietta addresses Maeve. “I can promise you nothing. But I will consider your request.”

Sudden movement distracts Raffaele. It is Teren, stepping away from Giulietta’s side and marching toward him. A knot of dark, frustrated energy churns in the Inquisitor’s chest, and Raffaele tenses. Behind Teren, Giulietta watches him with stony eyes. She didn’t tell him to move, Raffaele thinks. He’s acting without her permission?

Teren pauses a few steps from Raffaele. He smiles at Maeve. “Your Majesty, Beldain considers such marked survivors sacred, you say.” He turns in a circle so that the entire crowd can hear him. “We are privileged to have a Queen of Beldain in our nation, and are thrilled to honor your stay here. But in Kenettra, we have different customs.”

“Master Santoro.” Giulietta’s voice is not loud, but Raffaele hears the sharp warning in her tone. She doesn’t want to shout it, because she doesn’t want to look like she has no control over her Inquisition. Teren ignores her. “In Kenettra,” Teren continues loudly, “a malfetto, gift or otherwise, is not to set foot inside Estenzia.”

Good, Raffaele thinks. They had chosen to gift Raffaele precisely to anger Teren. Is he angry that he didn’t capture me first, or that his queen is looking at me instead of him?

“In Kenettra,” Teren says, “a malfetto who has committed treason against the crown must be executed. My Inquisition is grateful to Your Majesty for bringing this criminal back to us, so that we can carry out the appropriate punishment.”

“Master Santoro.” This time Giulietta’s voice is a furious whip. Teren finally turns to face her, and she narrows her eyes at him. Her mouth is set in a firm line. “Cease.”

As the crowd stirs restlessly, she holds her hands up for silence. “We have enough bloodshed in our past,” she says. “Let there be none today.”

Teren opens his mouth, then quickly closes it. He bows his head to Giulietta, shoots Raffaele one last withering glare, and stalks back to Giulietta’s tent. Giulietta doesn’t look at him. While Inquisitors grab each of Raffaele’s arms, Giulietta approaches.