My small tent is only big enough for a bedroll, two pillows to sit on, and a red lacquer tray that must have been taken from the commandant’s office. The tent is just the right size for sleeping and eating, though I can’t seem to do much of either. The hardtack and dried venison that served as dinner sit untouched on the tray, and my bedroll is still neatly made. Instead I sit on one of the pillows with my legs crossed and the hastily drawn map of the Water Mine that Artemisia sketched spread out on my lap.

Of everyone in our camp, Artemisia and Laius were the only ones to have set foot in the Water Mine and the camp surrounding it, but both of them only know it from the point of view of a prisoner, and Laius was so young when he was brought to the Fire Mine to be studied with Griselda. He doesn’t remember much of anything, and Art only knows the parts she was permitted to see—the barracks and the mine. As such, her map is less complete than S?ren’s map of the Fire Mine was, seen through the eyes of a visiting prince with insight about guard positions and schedules, entrances and exits, armories and weapon caches. We don’t know where the guards are or where the Guardians and berserkers are being kept. We won’t know until we’re too close to do anything about it.

The Kalovaxians don’t go into battles blind. They don’t charge into a fight without plans and backup plans and escape strategies. They don’t attack unless they’re sure they will walk away victorious, which is why they so often are. They would never dream of storming a camp full of warriors with only a ragtag army—not to mention that the Kalovaxians will have Spiritgems aplenty to aid them and we aren’t using any, except for the handful that are with our hastily trained Guardians.

Suddenly I miss S?ren so much that it feels like a dagger between my ribs, twisting and carving away at my flesh. I don’t know if it’s the hopelessness and uncertainty of this looming battle or if it’s merely being here in this unfamiliar place, alone, but I miss him all the same.

Ever since Cress took him, I haven’t let my thoughts linger too long on his absence. I haven’t let myself wonder where he is or what he’s going through. I haven’t let myself remember how we slept those last days before the battle, his body curled around mine, the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing my own. I haven’t let myself miss him as an advisor or a friend or whatever else he might have been to me.

But I should have known that the feelings would catch up with me eventually.

I close my eyes tightly, crumpling Artemisia’s map in my hands.

If S?ren were here, he would remind me that we won the battle at the Fire Mine, that we have more warriors now than we did before. He would tell me that there are thousands of people depending on me and that I can’t fall apart and start doubting myself now.

But he’s not here—I don’t know where he is. I imagine him in the dungeon below the Astrean palace, bound in heavy, rusting chains. I imagine him being kept in a finer room with holes cut into the walls and Shadows who watch his every move. I imagine him dead, his head on a pike at the gate to warn anyone else who might be contemplating treason, like Ampelio’s was. I imagine him sitting on a throne beside Cress, unwilling but unprotesting, the way he was for so long during his father’s reign.

Cress. The thought hits me like a strong gust of wind, enough to bowl me over.

I don’t know where S?ren is, but I can find out.

* * *

—

I find Cress sitting on a bench in the gray garden, though now it is gray not only because of the stone ground and lifeless trees—everything is covered in a thick layer of ash, and more falls from the sky like a light spring rain. She looks like she’s covered in ash herself, but it’s only her dress, a gray velvet gown that is simpler than anything I’ve seen her wear before. There are no gems, no bits of lace, no gold accents. Just gray velvet in a simple silhouette that hugs her torso and bells out at her hips. The neckline is high, but not quite high enough to hide the charred, flaking skin of her neck.

She keeps her hands clasped in her lap and her head bowed, fragile white hair loose and falling forward in a curtain that hides her face. For a second, I think she’s praying, but when her head snaps up and her eyes find mine, I realize she was only waiting. Waiting for me.

Her black-lipped smile is brittle and cold, but it is a smile all the same.

“You’re late,” she says, words light and chiding, as if I’ve merely overslept and missed the first few minutes of tea.

“Or you’re early,” I reply, matching her tone. If she’s to believe I’m only a figment of her imagination, then I need to act like she expects me to act. It’s a strange part to play, but I suppose I’ve played stranger over the years—I’ve played helpless, played dumb, played docile. Now I only have to play dead.

She shifts, making room for me on the bench beside her. Though the idea of being so close to her frightens me, I sit. There is only an inch of space between us, and I’m aware of her in a way I’ve never been aware of a person in a dream—I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, see the pulse leap in her throat. I wonder if she feels as aware of me, though I hope for my sake she doesn’t.

I want to ask about S?ren straightaway, but that would raise suspicions, so instead I simply sit with her in silence, waiting for her to speak.

“Do you want to hear the most ludicrous thing?” she asks after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“I think I’m jealous of you,” she says before laughing. “You’re dead in the ground and I’m alive. I’m going to win this war, I have S?ren, I have the throne, I have the crown. I have everything and you have nothing—you are nothing. And yet…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“Is that why you’re doing all of this?” I ask her. “Because you’re jealous.”

She laughs again, but this time the sound is sharper. “You should know me better than that, Thora,” she says. “You should know that my father didn’t raise me to be led by my emotions. I have a country to run. I have thousands of people depending on me, looking to me for strength. What do you think would happen if I didn’t show it to them? How quickly do you think I would join you in whatever afterlife awaits?”

We both have people depending on us, I think, and though I don’t want to, I can feel myself soften toward her, just a fraction. I push the thought aside and focus instead on the opening she provided.

“What of S?ren, then?” I ask her. “Why did you take him if not because you were being led by your emotions?”

“Because he may be a traitor, but he still has the only blood claim to the throne. I need him. For now,” she says. “Though he isn’t being cooperative.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Well, what did you expect, Cress?” I ask her. “That you would drag him back to the palace and he would become your charming Prinz, spouting love poems and threading flowers into your hair?”

Her expression grows sour. “I expected him to have some sense of self-preservation,” she says. “Not to sulk in his cell and refuse to eat or drink or speak to me, no matter what I’ve done to try to…convince him.”

His cell. So he must be in the dungeon. And he’s back to the training his father gave him as a child, not eating or drinking when being held hostage. I’m sure they’ll force food and water into him sooner or later, if they haven’t done so already, but he’s making it clear he’s a hostage, not apologizing, not begging for forgiveness.

It wasn’t until she said it that I realized I was worried he might have done just that. For so many years, he followed his father’s orders, even though he knew they were wrong. When he first began to turn toward our side, it was because of me, because he thought he was in love with me and wanted a future where we could be together. Part of me was afraid that now, with him believing me dead, he might go back to who he was before.

But he hasn’t. Maybe it was less about me than I thought. Maybe it wasn’t really about me at all.

I try not to imagine exactly what she’s done to try to convince him. Her father was known for his skill at extracting information and cooperation from prisoners, and the Theyn never had fire at his fingertips to assist him.

“Perhaps he finds his suffering preferable to your company,” I tell her.

The thought has already taken up residence in her mind, I can tell, and now she’ll hear it again and again in my voice. I hope it drives her mad.

Cress only shrugs. If the thought bothers her, she’s careful to hide it. “My father used to say that every person reaches a point where they break.”

“I suppose that’s true enough,” I say. “Though I’d imagine your father thought I reached that point a decade ago, and that mistake killed him.”

“I’m not my father,” she says. “I don’t make the same mistakes—I didn’t underestimate you, and I won’t underestimate S?ren.”

She gets to her feet, brushing the ash from the skirt of her gown. Before she leaves, she turns back to me with a sad smile.

“Don’t worry, Thora,” she says. “Once he’s served his purpose, I’ll let him join you in death. Won’t that be a kindness?”