A group of men wearing suits and earpieces waits for us in front of a car—our car. They look too clean, too slick, their hair combed and gelled into place, their suits tailored precisely to their body types. These must be the king’s men. The king, I notice, isn’t here. He’s probably too busy figuring out how to best kill my people.

When we reach them, one steps away from the rest. “Ambassador Freeman, Serenity,” he says, reaching a hand out to my father, then to me. I start at the sound of my name spoken from his lips. Of course they know who I am. “My name is Marco, and I am the liaison between you and the king.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from responding as I take his hand. Anything that comes out of my mouth right now will only make the situation worse. Instead I nod. Belatedly I realize that this makes me appear demure.

“Nice to meet you, Marco,” my father says, smooth as silk. My father’s good at this, masking his true feelings behind a pleasant façade. Me, not so much.

The drive to the king’s estate, where we’ll be staying, is long and quiet. This is the first time I’ve gotten a good look at the city I’ll be staying in.

When we descended into Geneva, I couldn’t see the extent of the damage done to the city. Now that I’m in the car, I can. Bullet holes in the walls, piles of rubble where buildings and walkways have crumbled, graffiti, boarded up windows.

Amidst the damage I can see the city’s efforts to rebuild. Construction trucks, fresh dirt, piles of building materials. Geneva is already recovering.

I read in history books that this place used to be neutral territory, but it didn’t change Switzerland’s fate. Once the king sets his sights on a country, he’ll do whatever he needs to secure it. This was what he did to peaceful countries; I’d seen firsthand what he did to rebellious ones.

The king’s estate rises like a phoenix from the ashes. The walls gleam an unearthly white, the roofs the blue-green color of oxidized copper. The asshole has the audacity to flaunt his wealth in a broken city.

The hatred that smolders in my chest expands at the sight. It’s a good thing the gun I smuggled in is currently packed away, else I might be tempted to reach for it and end the peace talks before they’ve begun.

I feel a hand cover mine. My father’s looking at me with a warning in his eyes. I’m being too obvious about my emotions. I fix my expression into something bland and pleasant. At least the cameras aren’t here to capture whatever it was my father saw flicker across my features.

“When we arrive,” Marco says, breaking the silence, “I’ll show you and your entourage to your rooms. King Lazuli is hosting a welcome party tonight. That’s when you’ll officially meet him. Tomorrow morning the peace talks will commence.”

Our car passes through the gates and the security checkpoints. A row of Italian Cypress trees lines the drive. Beyond them is an expanse of green lawn. The symmetry and colors assault my eyes, and something sharp and painful lodges in my throat. A dim memory of how things used to be. The king’s estate reminds me of life before war. But the beauty here is duplicitous; the king lives a fantasy. The city outside these gates—that’s the unpleasant truth. The world is a mess, and no amount of paint and landscaping can cover that up.

Eventually the car comes to a halt in front of the estate. The doors open and someone reaches for my hand—like I need help exiting a car. Brushing aside the offer, I step out of the vehicle.

I gaze up at those white, white walls, and the only thing I can think of is that, somewhere inside, dwells the devil.

And tonight, I’ll meet him.

Chapter 4

Serenity

Seven years ago I killed a man. Four men, in fact. I was only twelve. My father was off at work, and I’d just gotten home from school when I was ambushed. Four men had followed me back to my house. I’d watched them hang back behind me, far away enough to appear as though they were casually strolling. But I’d seen them before, heard rumors about them. No one tells you that in war, sometimes the enemy is your neighbor.

So as soon as I entered my house, I moved into my room and opened the lockbox that held my gun. Just in time too.

The front door smashed open and the men were shouting, no doubt to work me up into a frenzy. And it worked. I screamed at the sound. My heart hammered in my chest.

The weapon was preloaded for an occasion just like this. I clicked off the safety and knelt at the foot of my bed, breathing slowly to calm my racing heart. Gripping the gun with both hands, I aimed at the doorway to my room.

It only took them several more seconds to find me. As soon as the first man came within my line of sight, I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him right in the middle of the chest. I’d mortally wounded him, but he wouldn’t die instantly.

Two of his friends pressed into the doorway, their eyes wide. They were now more interested in what was going on than grabbing me. I shot both of them before they could react.

The fourth man must’ve seen his friends go down because I heard the pound of his footfalls moving away from my room.

If I didn’t kill him now, he’d return for revenge. That was how this new world worked. I knew that even at age twelve.

By the time I’d left my room, the three other men lay on the ground moaning, the fourth man was already out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, past the living room, and followed him outside. As soon as I made it to the front yard I saw him running down my street. I knelt, took a calming breath, aimed, and fired.