My mouth is dry no matter how often I swallow, and I can’t keep from shaking as Hoa goes to the door. I hide my hands in the folds of my dress and struggle to keep my scrambled, panicked thoughts from showing on my face.

I’m acutely aware of Blaise and the others behind the walls. I can’t let them see me afraid. I need to show them that I can be strong and sure.

I cross to stand near Blaise’s post, dropping my voice to a whisper while Hoa is distracted listening to the guard.

“Remember what we talked about. The humiliation at the banquet was a mild inconvenience compared to what will happen now. The Kaiser’s punishments are brutal but not lethal, so you will let it happen and stay silent. Do you understand?” I don’t let myself mention Lord Dalgaard, as if not speaking about it will erase the threat.

He doesn’t reply, but I can almost feel an argument brewing.

“I’m too valuable to kill,” I assure him, softening my voice. “That’s protection enough.”

He grunts in response and I have no choice but to take that as assent.

Hoa flits back into the room, light on her feet, her expression inscrutable. She immediately starts tugging at my dress and smoothing out the wrinkles that have come from sitting around all morning.

“Is it the Kaiser?” I ask, letting real fear seep into my voice.

Her eyes dart to mine briefly before dropping. She shakes her head. Relief spreads through me, loosening the python around my stomach. I have to force myself not to burst into inexplicable laughter.

“The Prinz, then?” I guess as she combs my hair back and fastens it in place with a pearl-encrusted pin.

Another shake of her head.

I frown, wondering who else could throw her into such a frenzy. Briefly I consider the Theyn, which sends another shudder through me before I remember he’s inspecting the mines. Still, it must be someone important, but no one apart from Crescentia—and now, apparently, Søren—pays me personal attention.

Hoa drags her eyes over me one last time, from the top of my head to my sandaled feet, before giving me a firm nod of approval and a none-too-gentle shove toward the door, where two guards wait.

* * *

—

I know better than to ask the guards where we’re going. Most Kalovaxians—even those without titles—treat me as if I’m an animal instead of a girl. Though that isn’t quite fair. I’ve seen plenty of Kalovaxians speak to their dogs and horses with some measure of kindness.

My Astrean gods are hazy in my mind, especially the dozens of minor gods and goddesses, but I’m fairly sure there is no god of spies among them. Delza, Suta’s daughter and the goddess of deception, is likely the closest, though I’m not sure even she will be able to protect me from the whip.

The sound of my Shadows’ footfalls are so common that I’ve almost stopped hearing them altogether, but now I’m all too aware of them. Despite his promise, I doubt that if it comes to a whipping or some other punishment, Blaise will be able to stay silent.

The guards lead me down the halls and I have to force my feet to keep moving forward. When I realize where we are going, my chest tightens until I can hardly breathe. I haven’t been in the royal wing of the palace since before the siege, since it was my own home.

The guards’ boots click against the granite floor and all I can think about is my mother chasing me down this hall, trying to wrangle me into a bath. The stained-glass windows are cracked and dirty now, but I remember how the afternoon light used to filter through them and make the gray stone walls look like the inside of a jewelry box. Paintings used to line the halls, landscapes and portraits of my ancestors done in rich oil paints with gilded frames, but now they’re all gone. I wonder what happened to them. Were they sold or simply destroyed? Imagining those paintings in a heap with a torch put to them breaks my heart.

This can’t be the same hall I grew up in, where I lived with my mother. That hall lives in my memory, perfectly intact, but now that I see what’s become of it I wonder if I will ever be able to remember it the same way again.

Still, as different as it is from the place I remember, it’s haunted with the ghost of my mother, and her presence weighs down on my shoulders like the funeral shroud she was never given. I hear her laugh in the silence, the way it used to echo through the halls so it was the last thing I heard each night before I fell asleep.

We pass the door to the library, to the private royal dining room, to my former bedroom, and then the guards pull me to a halt in front of what was once the door to my mother’s sitting room. I don’t know what it is now, but I’m sure it can only be the Kaiser waiting for me on the other side with a whip in his hand.

The guards push me through the door into a dimly lit room, and I immediately drop to a curtsy without looking up, heart thundering against my rib cage. Any hint of disrespect will cost me. Footsteps approach—lighter and slower than I’d been expecting. Red silk skirts and golden slippers fill my vision while the cloying scent of roses tickles my nose, and I realize it isn’t the Kaiser who’s summoned me, it’s the Kaiserin.

While she is a moderately more appealing option than the Kaiser, I’m not sure I’m grateful for it. At least with the Kaiser I know where I stand. I understand the rules of his games, even if he usually cheats. But I can’t begin to guess what the Kaiserin wants from me, and I fear that looking at her will feel like looking at my future if I fail to gain my freedom. How long will it be before my own eyes grow so empty and distant?

Hers have always been that way, I think, even when she first arrived in the palace after the siege, then in her mid-twenties with smooth skin, loose yellow hair, and a seven-year-old Søren clutching her hand. She flinched when the Kaiser kissed her cheek in greeting, eyes darting around the room in a way I’d already grown too familiar with. She was searching for help she would never find.

“Leave us,” she says now. Her voice is no louder than a whisper, but the guards comply, shutting the door behind them with a thunk that echoes in the mostly empty sitting room. “I trust your back isn’t broken enough to hinder your standing?” she asks.

I hasten to my feet, smoothing out my skirts as I do. The room is large but sparsely decorated. There are five enormous windows that line one of the walls, but they’re each draped with thick red velvet curtains that keep out any trace of sunlight. Candles are lit instead: a taper stands four feet tall by the door and a dozen thumb-sized ones crowd the low table in the center. The heavy brass chandelier overhead is lit as well, but the room still feels dark and gloomy. There’s a hodgepodge of seating thrown around the table, including red velvet tufted chairs, sofas, and a chaise, all with gilt frames. Despite being filled with so much fire, the room is chilly.