“It’s how most of the world operates,” S?ren says. Though Artemisia doesn’t have Heron’s healing powers, she’s managed to use her Water Gift to clean him up and rinse out his wounds to keep them from getting infected. Again, it’s only temporary. After we leave, it will only be a matter of hours before he’s roughed up again. The thought weighs heavily on my conscience, but I know Art is right: there’s nothing I can do about it. Not now, at least.

“Patriarchies are awfully fallible, though,” I say. “It’s easy to cast doubt on the paternity of an heir, but almost impossible if you follow the maternal line. No one can say for certain who my father was, but my mother’s identity has never been called into question. No one would ever doubt my legitimacy as an heir to her throne.”

Artemisia makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Unless there are twins, of course,” she says.

When S?ren and I both turn to look at her, she sighs and sits up from her spot slouched against the wall diagonally across from S?ren. “There’s a story about when our mothers were born,” she says to me. “They say they tied a ribbon around the firstborn’s ankle. Flimsy a system as it was, there was no precedent, so they did their best. Of course, babies are squirmy things and the ribbon fell off after less than an hour. So the queen—our grandmother—picked one of them. It was a random choice, based on her intuition, she said. That was how the fate of our country was decided.”

She says it plainly, a story she’s heard so many times it’s become its own kind of mythology, but it prickles at the back of my neck like a gnat. S?ren catches my gaze and I see the pieces coming together for him as well. It’s almost a relief, for Dragonsbane to have some kind of goal aside from creating chaos and hoarding control, but if she wants my crown she’s going to have to pry it from my corpse’s fingers.

“Tell me about the Bindorians again,” I say to S?ren, changing the subject, though I stow that bit of knowledge in the back of my mind. “You said they were a…religious…?”

“Oligarchy,” he finishes. “Ruled by five high priests, who are in turn elected by smaller delegations of regular priests, one for each sub-country. Though the common belief is that each high priest is chosen by God himself.”

“God?” Artemisia asks.

“They’re monotheistic, yes,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “Just say there’s only one. You aren’t in court, your fancy words don’t impress anyone.”

His cheeks turn pink. “There’s only one,” he amends. “There are a few countries that are mono…that have only one god. In some religions he’s benevolent and kind, protecting his people. In others he’s vengeful, ready to reach down and punish them for any kind of indiscretion.”

“So how would this work?” Artemisia asks. “If a religious oli…whatever it is shows up to try for Theo’s hand. Would one of them marry her?”

A bonus of this briefing is that it’s an immersion lesson in keeping my expression placid while they throw around words like marriage and husband and wedding. It’s all hypothetical, I remind myself. I haven’t agreed to anything and I won’t, but it would be foolish to walk into the Sta’Criveran court blind.

“I don’t imagine so,” he says. “They are all celibate. They would be interested solely in Astrea and ruling there.”

“Partially ruling. Hypothetically,” I correct him, though even that is a horrifying thought. “Something tells me that they wouldn’t be too keen on respecting our beliefs.”

S?ren hesitates before shaking his head. “I visited Bindor once a few years ago and I didn’t have a single conversation with any of them that didn’t get forced back into them trying to convert me.”

“Lovely,” I say with an exhale. “They’re out, then.”

It’s the same thing I’ve said about most of the heirs S?ren has mentioned, and even the ones I haven’t outright rejected haven’t sounded like valid options. But I could tell S?ren and Art were getting frustrated with me, so I said I would at least consider them. The problem isn’t any of the prospective matches. I know that and they must as well. The problem is that I can’t stomach the thought of marrying anyone, let alone some stranger with ulterior motives. If there was another choice—any other choice—I wouldn’t even entertain the idea. But as awful as all these prospects seem, I can’t deny that we need more troops, and that won’t come without a high cost.

“Let’s go back to King Etristo again,” I say, but Artemisia and S?ren exchange a tired look. Even to them, King Etristo of Sta’Crivero is something of an enigma. S?ren’s actually met the man before, but still couldn’t say much. I can count the things I know about him on only three fingers.

First, he is either in his sixties or seventies—S?ren and Artemisia disagree here.

Second, he has several daughters but only one legitimate son, who himself has his own heir. The Sta’Criveran royal lineage is secure for at least another two generations.

And third, since the Kalovaxians began their conquering nearly a century ago, Sta’Crivero has accepted refugees from the countries that were ravaged. They are one of the few countries too strong for the Kalovaxians to target.

“There’s nothing else?” I press, but S?ren and Artemisia both shake their heads.

“What about him personally?” I ask. “Is he kind or cruel, wise or dim?”

S?ren shrugs but Artemisia purses her lips.

“I don’t know any more about the King, but I do know that Sta’Crivero is a wealthy country. They haven’t fought a war in centuries. They don’t need to value useful things, so they value pretty things.”

The implication is clear. “I’m not a thing,” I say.

“I know that and you know that,” Artemisia says, rolling her eyes. “But they don’t. And they won’t care enough to make the distinction.”

A RINGING SOUND PIERCES THROUGH THE haze of sleep surrounding my mind and drags me back to the world after what feels like only a few minutes, though the early dawn light filtering through the porthole window means it must have been hours. I blink the sleep from my eyes and sit up before realizing that something is wrong.

It isn’t the sound that signals a crew change or meals or an announcement from Dragonsbane. Those are all a single gong, struck only once. Now it’s three different bells, clanging in tandem with no sign of stopping.

It’s an alarm.

I throw the blanket off and clamber to my feet, pulling my cloak over my nightgown and quickly shoving my feet in my too-big boots. My heart pounds against my rib cage as a thousand thoughts stream through my mind, heightened by the bells’ constant ringing.

The Kaiser’s men have found me.

They’ll drag me back in chains.

It’s over.

I’ve failed.

I push those worries aside and head for the door, determined to find out what all the fuss is about, but when I open it I find Spiros on the other side, swords sheathed at his hips and his fist raised to knock.

“Y-Your Majesty,” he stutters, eyes darting around and looking anywhere but at me as his hand falls to his side.

“What’s happening?” I ask him. I have to shout to be heard over the bells.

“We’ve caught wind of a Kalovaxian trade ship a few miles east, and the captain has decided to give chase. It’s all hands on deck now as we prepare for an attack.”

My body sags with relief and I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright. We’re attacking them, not the other way around.

“Captain says you’re to stay put in your cabin until it’s safe.”

The order wraps around me like a too-tight corset, though I know it’s for the best. I’m of no use in an attack. The best thing I can do for anyone is stay out of the way.

“And are you tasked with being my nanny?” I ask instead of arguing.

He frowns. “I’m your guard, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, I’ve had guards like you before,” I say, though I immediately regret it. This is hardly Spiros’s fault. “This happens often enough, doesn’t it?” I ask.

He nods. “Every couple of weeks.”

“Will there be casualties? Of ours?” I ask.

Again he hesitates. “There is usually a cost,” he says carefully.

Ampelio thought the cost was too high, I remember Blaise saying once, about Dragonsbane and her methods.

I open the door wider. “You might as well come in. It’ll be a long morning.”

Spiros nods, the dark cloud not leaving his face as he enters my cabin.

“How long does it usually last?” I ask him.

“A few hours. She’s pretty efficient about it by now—we could probably take the ship with blindfolds on. Approach their broadside and get as close as we can before turning our cannon side to them—you want to avoid turning too quickly, because then you give them a larger target,” he explains. “It’s much harder to do damage to the bow of a ship.”

I nod and wait for him to continue.

“Sometimes they’ll surrender before we even shoot. They know Dragonsbane’s reputation by now and there’s a rumor that she’s merciful to those who surrender, that she lets them sail off to Esstena or Timmoree or some small country and live so long as they swear to never return to Astrea. But the captain’s never shown mercy to any Kalovaxian.”

“And if they don’t surrender?”

Spiros shrugs. “We fire on them until they do, or until the ship sinks. If they do surrender, we loot them and then sink the ship and all the Spiritgems on board.”