“I wish it was jealousy that drove me here,” Maven murmurs. “I spent three years in the barracks, following Cal and officers and generals, watching soldiers fight and die for a war no one believed in. Where Cal saw honor and loyalty, I saw foolishness. I saw waste. Blood on both sides of the dividing line, and your people gave so much more.”

I remember the books in Cal’s room, the tactics and maneuvers laid out like a game. The memory makes me cringe, but what Maven says next chills my blood.

“There was a boy, just seventeen, a Red from the frozen north. He didn’t know me on sight, not like everyone else, but he treated me just fine. He treated me like a person. I think he was my first real friend.” Maybe it’s a trick of the moonlight, but something like tears glimmer in his eyes. “His name was Thomas and I watched him die. I could’ve saved him but my guards held me back. His life wasn’t worth mine, they said.” Then the tears are gone, replaced by clenched fists and an iron will. “Cal calls this the balance, Silver over Red. He’s a good person, and he’ll be a just ruler, but he doesn’t think change is worth the cost,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not the same as the rest of them. I think my life is worth yours, and I’ll give it gladly, if it means change.”

He is a prince and, worst of all, the queen’s son. I didn’t want to trust him before for this very reason, for the secrets he kept hidden. Or maybe this is what he was hiding all along . . . his own heart.

Though he tries his best to look grim, to keep his spine straight and his lips from trembling, I can see the boy beneath the mask. Part of me wants to embrace him, to comfort him, but Farley would stop me before I could. When she lowers her gun, slowly but surely, I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in.

“The boy speaks true,” the manservant Holland says. He shifts to stand next to Maven, strangely protective of his prince. “He’s felt this way for months now, since he returned from the front.”

“And you told him of us after a few tear-filled nights?” Farley sneers, turning her fearsome gaze on Holland. But the man holds firm.

“I’ve known the prince since boyhood. Anyone close to him can see his heart has changed.” Holland glances sidelong at Maven, as if remembering the boy he was. “Think what an ally he could be. What a difference he could make.”

Maven is different. I know that firsthand, but something tells me my words won’t sway Farley. Only Maven can do that now.

“Swear on your colors,” she growls at him.

An ancient oath, according to my Lady Blonos. Like swearing on your life, your family, and your children to come, all at once. And Maven doesn’t hesitate to do it.

“I swear on my colors,” he says, dipping his head. “I pledge myself to the Scarlet Guard.” It sounds like his marriage proposal, but this is far more important, and more deadly.

“Welcome to the Scarlet Guard,” she finally says, pulling away her scarf.

I move quietly over the tile floor until I feel his hand in mine. It blazes with now familiar heat. “Thank you, Maven,” I whisper. “You don’t know what this means to us.” To me.

Any other would smile at the prospect of recruiting a Silver, and a royal at that, but Farley barely reacts at all. “What are you willing to do for us?”

“I can give you information, intelligence, whatever you might need to continue forward with your operation. I sit on tax councils with my father—”

“We don’t care about taxes,” Farley snaps. She casts an angry glance at me, as if it’s my fault she doesn’t like what he’s offering. “What we need are names, locations, targets. What to hit and when to cause the most damage. Can you give me that?”

Maven shifts, uncomfortable. “I would prefer a less hostile path,” he mutters. “Your violent methods aren’t winning you any friends.”

Farley scoffs, letting the sound echo over the conservatory. “Your people are a thousand times more violent and cruel than mine. We’ve spent the last few centuries under a Silver boot and we’re not going to get out by being nice.”

“I suppose,” Maven murmurs. I can tell he’s thinking of Thomas, of everyone he watched die. His shoulder brushes mine as he pulls back, retreating into me for protection. Farley doesn’t miss it and almost laughs out loud.

“The little prince and the little lightning girl.” She laughs. “You two suit each other. One, a coward, and you”—she turns to me, her steel-blue eyes burning—“the last time we met, you were scrabbling in the mud for a miracle.”