Sorra holds his gaze. “In time, our people will suffer without them.”

That was the whole reason Mother attacked in the first place. She would not be seeking an alliance at all if she hadn’t failed. If Sorra is right, if Prince Rhen will not discuss an alliance, we are left with no other option.

Parrish nods somberly. “We will destroy this country—or wait for our own to fail.”

“It seems there is no choice now,” I say. “Mother made her decision. You guard the wrong sister if you think I can bring about change.”

We look back at the flames. The camp falls silent around us, but my thoughts run too quickly for sleep to find me anytime soon.

Two sisters, one heart.

We do not share a heart. I know that much.

For all Mother’s remarks about the enchantress and the magical beast that drove our forces out of Emberfall, Prince Rhen was correct: he did succeed once. I know from my studies that nothing unifies people like a common enemy. Right now, his country seems divided over whether he is the rightful heir, but if he can find this Commander Grey, if he can find the heir, then Prince Rhen can solidify his position. He cares about his people. His passion is evident. He could very well succeed again.

I unfold Nolla Verin’s embroidery and trace my fingers over the neat stitching.

Two sisters, one heart.

If I share a heart with anyone, it is this prince. At least he seems merciful. Thoughtful, not callous.

I wonder how he would have reacted if Nolla Verin had approached him with thoughtfulness and respect instead of arrogance and disdain. If she had presumed to care for his people along with her own.

I wonder if I can find out.

You are not lesser than Nolla Verin. Your sister will need your support.

The prince wouldn’t listen to my sister.

Perhaps he will listen to me.

“I want to speak with him,” I say quietly.

Sorra looks at me in alarm, but Parrish’s gaze is more steady. “Your mother will never allow it.”

“I know.” I pause. “We must be swift, before the others realize what we’re doing.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You mean to go now?”

“Yes.” My heart beats like a drum. “Saddle horses. Be as silent as possible.”

I expect them to refuse. They have been my guards for years, but they are sworn to my mother. Sorra holds my eyes for so long that my mother would consider it insolence.

I know it’s not.

“Please,” I say softly.

“For peace,” Parrish says at my side, and her gaze shifts to him. Her eyes soften.

He hooks a finger in the edge of her armor and pulls her forward. “For our future,” he says. Then he brushes his lips against hers.

My cheeks burn, but I can’t help but smile. “There will be time for that later. For now, we need to hurry.”

Parrish grins and pulls back. Sorra’s cheeks are equally pink. They turn toward where the horses are tethered, their movement silent.

When I follow to help, Parrish looks at me. His grin has softened into a smile. “You were wrong,” he says.

“Wrong?”

“I believe we guard the only sister who can bring about change.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

GREY

Gossip and unrest always generate crowds, but tonight the tourney is busier than I’ve ever seen it. When darkness fell, it brought cooler winds and a sky full of stars, but the stands are packed with so many bodies it’s hotter than at midday.

“The prince is running scared,” a man mutters as he waits in the snaking line for ale. Worwick must be turning a heady profit tonight. I’ve never seen the line stretch to the stables. “There’ve been no magesmiths in Emberfall in decades.”

I’m saddling horses for the mounted sparring, but when I’m working, I’m invisible. People speak freely without consideration.

When I was a guardsman, stationed along a wall, it was no different.

“Well, something controlled that beast that terrorized the castle,” says another man. “Everyone says it was Karis Luran, but I don’t know why anyone isn’t questioning this new princess. Maybe she’s the one who sent it. I don’t trust this alliance with wherever she’s from. They let our king die.”

I tighten a girth and give the horse a pat on the neck.

“Rillisk has been governed by the Grand Marshal for years,” scoffs a woman. “The royal family returns, and suddenly we’re supposed to bend a knee? Not likely.”

“Watch your voice,” says the first man. “I heard there’s royalty here tonight.”

My fingers go still on the buckle of a bridle. The horse butts his face against my hand, and I murmur to quiet him.

The second man chuckles lazily. “Royalty? Just another princeling no one has ever heard of.”

A breath eases out of my chest. Months ago, this would have been worrisome, but since the southern borders were opened, I’ve heard of minor royalty passing through Rillisk, as smaller lands seek to reopen trade routes.

“Hawk.”

The rough voice makes me jump, but it’s just Journ, Worwick’s other fighter. I prefer his company to Kantor’s, but right now he’s pale and sweating, one hand braced on a post along the wall.

I frown. “Are you sick?”

“I took a kick from a horse. The roads are packed. Two carriages collided. I tried to help.” He winces, a hand against his chest. “Worwick said you might have a poultice that you use on the horses.”

I do, but if he can barely stand, a poultice won’t let him fight. Little use in telling Worwick that, though. I call for Tycho to come finish with the horses, then look back at Journ. “Come to the armory. I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s cooler back here, away from the crowds. The scraver lies motionless in its cage, though its night-dark eyes flick open as we enter the armory. Journ drops onto a stool. When he removes his shirt, half his chest is dark with bruising. He gasps from the effort it took to disrobe.

“Tell me the truth,” he says breathlessly. “Does it look as bad as it feels?”

“It looks like your ribs are broken.”

He swears under his breath. “Worwick will come undone.”

“You can’t fight like this.”

“Have you seen the stands? It’s barely full dark and there are no seats left. If I can’t fight, Worwick will put a blade through me himself.”

The words make me think of Riley the blacksmith. When I was a weapon for the Crown, guilt rarely pricked at me for the actions I was ordered to take.

Today, guilt is a thorn I cannot remove.

Journ shifts and winces. “Can you bind it? Perhaps my armor will offer some support.”

“I can try.” I pack stiff muslin against his rib cage while he swears at me, then bind it tightly. He sweats through the bandages before I’m done, but when I buckle his armor into place over it, he’s able to stand more easily than he was before.

“You have my thanks, Hawk.” He clumsily claps my shoulder, then wheezes.

“A child could run you through.”

“I need the coins tonight.” He takes a thin breath and pulls a sword from the rack. “Take a blade. Let me try.”

I’ve never sparred with Journ or Kantor, because it’s hard to hide skills from men who have them. But he’s injured and we’re alone, and Journ is a good man, so I take a sword from the rack.