Move, I command my broken body. I have no idea where the king’s map room is in this palace of his. I only saw the one in Geneva. And without a clear destination, I’m essentially a fly caught in the spider’s web.

I limp down the hall, towards the first door I see. I doubt it leads to some promising destination, but I open it anyway and peek inside. Guest room. Not promising. I continue on.

I can hear shouting in the distance and those damn footfalls that herald another wave of Resistance fighters.

Hitting the end of the hall, I glance to my left and to my right. The walls have caved in one direction. I’ve hit the edge of the destruction. In the other direction dust is still settling from the blast.

One of the soldiers had said we were close, and this hall looks vaguely familiar. I might be able to find the exit on my own.

A moment later as I move down the remaining corridor, I spot the door to the king’s conference room. The king’s map room must be close by. Hope flares up in me. I hurry down the hall until I come across a door that looks like it leads to an important room. I try the door. Locked.

The footsteps are getting closer. No time to waste at this point. This is my only option. As soon as I step back to gun down the door, I hear voices on the other side.

I think I’ve found the map room. And here I thought I had the world’s worst luck.

“Help!” I scream and begin to pound on the door. “It’s the queen!”

I’ve got seconds left to get inside; otherwise, I’m as good as dead.

The door opens just as Resistance fighters turn down onto the hall. I level my gun and begin firing at them.

“Your Majesty!”

“Serenity!” The king’s voice rises above the fray. What is he still doing in the palace? He should be gone by now.

Someone grabs me around the waist and drags me inside the room, and I suck in air through my teeth as my injured arm is jostled. The door slams shut, and I’m surrounded by the king’s soldiers.

“Can you walk?” one asks.

I groan. “Yeah, but not quickly.”

The king pushes through his men and comes to my side. His hands don’t know where to touch me, so he settles on my face.

No words are exchanged. They’re not needed. I can see relief mingling with panic. And then he kisses me.

It’s cut short by banging on the door. The door shudders. Several of the king’s soldiers hang back to watch the room’s entrance. It won’t hold for long now that the Resistance saw me enter.

I’m assisted to a blast door propped open at the back of the room. I’ve seen these before, I know that once this door closes, there will be no getting it back open. Beyond it I can see a sleek passageway; I’m sure this is the escape route the soldier mentioned earlier.

Outside the room, the muffled pounding of footsteps lessens. Not a good sign.

The king’s men lead him through the escape passage first. Marco stands to the side, waiting to follow us in. I notice something in his hand, but I never get a good look at it. Behind me I hear a muffled clink of a heavy object out in the hallway.

“Grena—!” My words are cut off by the explosion.

My body’s thrown forward, right into Marco. The two of us fall in a tangle of limbs just outside the passage entrance. A plume of ash and dust obscures the room, but I can hear the tread of feet.

“Close the door!” Marco shouts.

The king roars something in response, but it’s cut off by the slam of the blast door. The sound is a death knell; there will be no escaping now. Once again, the king’s been shuffled away while I remain in the fray, this time with Marco, one of the men I revile most in the world.

I scramble to get up when Marco’s hand presses me back down into the floor.

My gaze flicks to his. “Get the fuck off of—”

The side of Marco’s fist slams down against my chest, and I choke on my words. A sharp, burning pain punctures my heart. I can’t make sense of it until Marco withdraws his fist, and with it, an empty syringe.

“What’ve you done?” I ask, drawing in a ragged breath and touching my chest.

Shots are fired on the other end of the room, and I have no idea who’s killing whom.

“It’s a serum to make you forget.”

My eyes widen in surprise. Those dazed technicians, that article on memory suppression—I’m staring down the terrible invention behind it all.

“The king’s told you his secrets,” Marco explains. “They’ll torture them out of you unless they’re not there.”

“You bastard,” I whisper. My memory is all I have left. I’ll forget who I am, where I came from. I’ll forget my father, my mother, my entire life.

I want to scratch the liquid out of me.

“The king possesses an antidote. It’s reversible.”

I huff at that. “Like that’s going to do me a lot of good if I can’t remember the king.”

The sounds of gunfire are getting closer.

“He’ll find you. Trust me, he will.”

Marco rolls off me and pulls out a gun.

My breath catches. “What are you doing?” I ask, scrambling to sit up.

He clicks off the safety. “I only had one vial.”

Marco doesn’t hesitate. He places the gun barrel against his temple and fires. Blood and viscous things hit me.

And that is the end of Marco. For only a moment I find it strangely poetic that my father and my father’s killer both died from the same wound. Then the thought is whisked away from me.