“Aldrik?” More knocking. “If you’re there, you don’t even have to open the door, just say something.”

“Elecia?” he called into the door.

“Aldrik.” Vhalla heard the sorrow in Elecia’s voice. She heard the grief, the guilt at having been too late. If Vhalla could have just switched places with her, then perhaps Baldair would have lived. She took a shaky breath. It wasn’t fair to blame the other woman but, by the Gods, Vhalla wanted to.

“I want to talk to you.” Vhalla realized why she didn’t recognize Elecia’s voice immediately. There was a quivering strain to it. A tension pulled out her words in an unfamiliar way.

Aldrik’s fingers closed around the lock. Vhalla watched him as he was just about to turn it. She opened her mouth to object, considering her soot stained clothes and obvious bed-head.

“Aldrik, do you remember that time when you and Baldair came to the West together?” Elecia said quickly. Aldrik stilled. “You both had an official meeting that I so desperately wanted to attend. I thought it was viciously unfair that I couldn’t go.”

Aldrik’s hand fell away from the door.

“You promised me I could go. Baldair thought you were just telling another one of your lies, but you had a way, remember?” Elecia’s story was slowly told, her words enunciated one by one as though she was in desperate need of him to hear them. “I thought you were so kind then. Do you remember what you wore?”

The prince took a step away, his face suddenly serious—a thin veil for the panic that lit his eyes. Vhalla didn’t understand.

“I remember, I’m sure it’s no surprise . . .” Elecia continued rambling.

Vhalla never heard the rest of the story. Aldrik spun on his heel and practically sprinted back toward her. Vhalla’s hand was in his, and he tugged her into the bedroom, closing the door quickly behind them, taking care not to slam it or make any loud noises.

“Aldrik, what’s going on?”

He threw open one of the large armoires in the room, reaching behind the familiar plate for a key.

“My father is waiting out there,” he answered in a rush.

“What do you mean?” She couldn’t fathom how he knew that.

“I hate that memory,” he explained, taking her hand again and leading her into the secret hall between his room and the Tower. “We were kids. I snuck her in through a passage I’d discovered that people used to secretly listen to the conversations in the room.”

“What?” Vhalla struggled to connect things in her head. Why did this matter now?

“He punished me fiercely for taking her somewhere she didn’t belong. He said that if someone had discovered her presence, it would bring great shame to the crown for having a secret listener on official business. That I was lucky they didn’t.” Aldrik opened the door to the Tower, half-pulling her up it.

“So, your father is there?”

“I have no doubt. Elecia’s being forced to be a puppet right now. No matter what she may think of my stealing you into my room, if there’s one thing Elecia would hate more, it would be being someone else’s puppet.”

“What will your father do?” Vhalla’s head hurt from all the crying the night before, from the grief, from panic.

“I don’t know, and I don’t have enough time to figure it out,” Aldrik said with a curse.

If there was one thing the Gods did for them that day, it was keeping the hallways bare of observers. Though Vhalla had no idea how it would matter if someone did. Clerics had surely already been talking of the crown prince stealing away the Windwalker in a fit of grief. There were likely already rumors running rampant through the castle about the future Emperor’s infidelity with his favored whore. She grimaced at herself for even thinking what was certainly the gritty truth.

They stopped before the highest door in the Tower. Aldrik slipped the key into the lock and affirmed all her suspicions that these were the secondary quarters of the crown prince.

Braziers around the room sprung to life with a wave of his hand, casting long shadows beneath the sparse furniture. There was a table and two chairs placed toward the center. Along the back wall were, unsurprisingly, shelves of books and cabinets of curiosities. There was a small bed pushed to the left corner, a door next to it. Another door led off somewhere to the right of the room. The few windows were covered with heavy black curtains. It wasn’t a large space, perhaps three of her personal quarters, and everything had a slightly stagnant and dusty smell to it.

“Your Tower chambers.”

“Yes, and they only have one exit or entry.” He pressed the key into her palm. “This is the only key. I need you to lock that door behind me and let no one in. If someone comes and knows you are in here, ignore whatever they say and ask them what is most beautiful just before it dies.”

“What is most beautiful just before it dies?” she repeated, committing it to memory.

“A rose,” he answered softly. “If they do not respond with that, do not let them in—even if it is me. No matter what else they do or say, do not open the door.” Aldrik swallowed. “And if someone forces entry, jump.”

“What is going to happen next?” Vhalla tried to anticipate his thoughts and plans, to make some of her own. Everything was moving too quickly, and the world was still in flux from Baldair’s death.