“I’ve had good help, my king.” I bow, pretending to be flattered, even though I don’t care what he thinks. His opinion isn’t worth the rust on my father’s wheelchair.

“Are we just about ready?” Cal’s voice says, shattering my thoughts.

My body reacts, spinning around to see him enter the hall. My stomach churns, but not with excitement or nerves or any of the things silly girls talk about. I feel sick with myself, with what I let happen—with what I wanted to happen. Though he tries to hold my gaze, I tear my eyes away, to Evangeline hanging off his arm. She’s wearing metal again and she manages to smirk without moving her lips.

“Your Majesties,” she murmurs, dipping into a maddeningly perfect curtsy.

Tiberias smiles at her, his son’s bride, before clapping a hand down on Cal’s shoulder. “Just waiting on you, son,” he chortles.

When they stand next to each other, the family resemblance is undeniable—same hair, same red-gold eyes, even the same posture. Maven watches, his blue eyes soft and thoughtful, while his mother keeps her grip on his arm. With Evangeline on one side and his father on the other, Cal can’t do much more than meet my eyes. He nods slightly, and I know it’s the only greeting I deserve.

Despite the decorations, the ballroom looks the same as it did more than a month ago, when the queen first pulled me into this strange world, when my name and identity were officially stripped away. They struck a blow against me here and now it’s my turn to strike back.

Blood will spill tonight.

But I can’t think of that now. I have to stand with the others, to speak with the hundred members of court lined up to trade words with royalty and one jumped-up Red liar. My eyes flit down the line, looking for the marked ones—Maven’s targets given to the Guard, the sparks to light a fire. Reynald, the colonel, Belicos—and Ptolemus. The silver-haired, dark-eyed brother of Evangeline.

He is one of the first to greet us, standing just behind his severe father, who hurries along to his daughter. When Ptolemus approaches me, I fight the urge to be sick. Never have I done anything so difficult as looking into the eyes of a dead man walking.

“My congratulations,” he says, his voice hard as rock. The hand he extends is just as firm. He doesn’t wear a military uniform, but a suit of black metal that fits together in smooth, gleaming scales. He’s a warrior, but not a soldier. Like his father before him, Ptolemus leads the Archeon city guard, protecting the capital with his own army of officers. The head of a snake, Maven called him before. Cut him down and the rest will die. His hawkish eyes are on his sister, even while he holds my hand. He lets me go in a hurry, quickly passing by Maven and Cal before embracing Evangeline in a rare display of affection. I’m surprised their stupid outfits don’t get stuck together.

If all goes to plan, he’ll never hug his sister again. Evangeline will have lost a brother, just like me. Even though I know that pain firsthand, I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for her. Especially not with the way she holds on to Cal. They look like complete opposites, he in his simple uniform while she glitters like a star in a dress of razor spikes. I want to kill her, I want to be her. But there’s nothing I can do about that. Evangeline and Cal are not my problem tonight.

As Ptolemus disappears and more people pass with cold smiles and sharp words, it gets easier to forget myself. House Iral greets us next, led by the lithe, languid movements of Ara, the Panther. To my surprise, she bows lowly to me, smiling as she does so. But there’s something strange about it, something that tells me she knows more than she lets on. She passes without a word, sparing me from another interrogation.

Sonya follows her grandmother, arm in arm with another target: Reynald Iral, her cousin. Maven told me he’s a financial adviser, a genius who keeps the army funded with taxes and trade schemes. If he dies, so does the money, and so will the war. I’m willing to trade one tax collector for that. When he takes my hand, I can’t help but notice his eyes are frozen and his hands are soft. Those hands will never touch mine again.

It’s not as easy to dismiss Colonel Macanthos when she approaches. The scar on her face stands out sharply, especially tonight when everyone seems so polished. She might not care for the Guard, but she didn’t believe the queen either. She wasn’t ready to swallow the lies being spoon-fed to the rest of us.

Her grip is strong as she shakes my hand; for once someone isn’t afraid I’ll break like glass. “Every happiness to you, Lady Mareena. I can see this one suits you.” She jerks her head toward Maven. “Not like fancy Samos,” she adds in a playful whisper. “She’ll make a sad queen, and you a happy princess, mark my words.”