“That’s the first good idea you’ve had,” Magnus replied under his breath.

But before he could make a move to grab for a weapon, or say another word, three spears sailed through the air, impaling each man from behind.

The three dropped to the ground at Magnus’s feet.

Magnus looked up. Behind the men, there was a veritable army of soldiers in green uniforms.

Amara’s army.

Magnus slammed the door shut and staggered back into the inn. “We have a problem.”

“Yes, I see that,” the king replied.

“I take it Amara doesn’t believe whatever story you told her anymore if she’s sent her army for you.”

“I assumed it would only be a matter of time.”

Magnus glared at him. “How can you sound so damn calm about this?”

There was a banging on the door. “Open up in the name of Amara Cortas, empress of Kraeshia!”

Milo was there in front of them, sword in hand, as the front door splintered inward and Amara’s guards came spilling into the inn. Magnus now had his sword at the ready, but all he could do was watch as Milo—the guard he still felt deep gratitude toward for intervening when his and Cleo’s lives had been threatened at the cliffside—fell after slaying only two guards.

With a roar of anger, Magnus moved forward, raising his weapon.

The king put his hand on Magnus’s shoulder to stop him.

“Don’t,” he said.

A tall, muscular uniformed soldier strode forward, the others making way for him. “Drop your weapon. Surrender, or die here and now.”

Magnus, his jaw clenched, looked down at Milo, blood pooling next to his body. Milo had wanted to fight, had wanted to kill as many of these Kraeshians as he could for the king and for Limeros.

But he couldn’t kill them all. And neither could Magnus.

This fight was over before it had barely begun. Amara had won.

CHAPTER 26

LUCIA

PAELSIA

“I swear to the goddess,” Lucia said, clutching her belly, “this child wishes to be the death of me.”

She’d never assumed that carrying a child would be simple. In the past, she’d seen pregnant women who’d complained about their backs hurting, their ankles swelling, and constant nausea. But she knew this was different.

The road Jonas promised would lead to her family was winding and rocky. Every time the horse-drawn cart took a turn too fast or hit a boulder, she wanted to cry out from the pain.

“Do you want me to have the driver stop again?” asked Jonas.

“No. We’ve wasted too much time already.”

The rebel had been very quiet during the journey, which, due to multiple stops, had taken them nearly an entire day since leaving his sister’s cottage.

She had to ask.

“Does your sister hate you because of who I am? That you brought me to her home?”

“That would be more than enough, I think. I was wrong to bring you there thinking she’d be willing to help you. But my sister hates me for other reasons. Valid reasons. I can’t argue that I didn’t abandon my family. Even though I thought I was keeping them safe by staying away, I see now that it was the wrong decision. I should have been there when my father died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He eyed her. “You are?”

“Despite what you believe of me, I’m not utterly heartless.”

“If you say so.”

She groaned. “Please keep talking, even if it’s only to insult me. When you’re talking, the pain seems to lessen a little.” She scanned what she could see of the landscape, which had turned from rural to much more populated, with buildings closer together and roads that seemed smoother and well traveled. “Is it much farther?”

“Not much. I’ll talk to ease your pain the rest of the way. The last time I saw my father I decided that I never wanted to be like him. But I still should have been there when he died. Like so many Paelsians, he accepted life as it unfolded before him, never working to change it. He believed blindly in Chief Basilius. I suppose I did too, for a while. At least, until I saw for myself that the chief had none of the magic he claimed and that he allowed Paelsians to starve while he lived like a true king in his compound, thanks to his high tax on Paelsian wine. He made me so many promises of a brighter future—he even wanted me to marry his daughter.”

It was odd—the sound of the rebel’s voice did seem to soothe her. At least until he mentioned that particular name. “Chief Basilius wanted you to marry his daughter? Which one?”

“Laelia.” He studied her. “Why do you look so surprised by this? Because the daughter of someone like Basilius would have nothing to do with a wine seller’s son?”

“That’s not why.”

“Trust me, she wasn’t complaining.”

“My goodness, rebel, is your previous betrothal a touchy subject for you?”

“No. I barely think about it—or her—anymore. I have no interest in marriage.” His jaw set, and he continued to mutter, as if to himself. “That leads to children, and children . . . I just don’t see myself raising one, no matter how important it might be.”

She frowned at him. “Of course not. You’re still young.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t choose this.”

His expression remained grim. “I keep wondering just how many of us actually get a choice in our futures, or whether they’re already set and we’re doomed to simply think we have control over our lives.”