There, she’d said so softly that no one else heard her. Now you’re truly ready for battle. The small act of defiance earned me ten lashes, and I’m sure the Theyn punished Cress as well. Now, she ignores the crumbling crown as stubbornly as I do.

“I heard all about the trial,” she says softly, her forehead puckering. “Are you all right?”

Trial seems like an odd word for it. There were no arguments made, no jury, no judge. It was a murder, and I executed it myself.

Logically, I know I didn’t have a choice. But that doesn’t ease my guilt.

“It’s done,” I tell her, waving a hand dismissively. As if it’s so easy to rid myself of the memory of the blade biting into Ampelio’s skin. “I do hope Hoa will be able to get the blood out, though. It was such a pretty dress, didn’t you think?”

“Oh yes. I’m so terribly jealous, Thora. Yellow looks awful on me, but you pull it off so beautifully,” she says, squeezing my arm as she leads me toward the far end of the banquet table, away from the royal family and Prinz Søren’s probing gaze.

The Theyn, I notice with a sinking stomach, isn’t here. He must have already left again. Off to another battle, another invasion, another slaughter.

“Ash Princess.” The Kaiser’s voice sends ice down my spine, but I suppress a shudder as I turn toward it, pleasant smile at the ready. His pale blue eyes are hard over his goblet of wine, raised in a mock toast to me. His bloated face is already a drunken red. “You’re the guest of honor. Your place is here.” He gestures to an empty seat next to Prinz Søren.

The squeeze Crescentia gives my hand is comforting as I leave her side to approach the Kaiser.

I curtsy at his feet, and when he extends a hand toward me, I kiss the ring on his smallest finger—the ring my mother used to wear, and her mother before her.

I start to rise, but his hand brushes my cheek, holding me in place. I struggle not to recoil. Some battles aren’t worth fighting. Some battles I can only ever lose. So I lean into his touch like the loyal subject I have been groomed to be, and I let him mark me with an ash handprint.

His hand falls away and he smirks, satisfied, before gesturing for me to sit. As I rise, I notice the Fire Gem pendant hanging from the gold chain around his neck. I would know that gem anywhere. It was Ampelio’s. The one he would let me play with, even though my mother scolded him for it whenever she saw him.

“Spiritgems aren’t playthings,” she would say.

But that might have been her only order he ever disobeyed. I loved holding it in my tiny hands, but it frightened me too—the warmth and power flooded through me like my blood was turning to fire in my veins. It sang to me like we belonged to one another.

Seeing it now, around Corbinian’s thick neck, fills me with a different kind of fire, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from lunging toward him and using that chain to choke the life from him. But I know Ampelio didn’t die for me so I could do something so foolish.

I force my eyes away from it and take my seat next to the Prinz.

Where before his eyes were stuck on me like mud, now he acts like I’m not here at all. He never lets his eyes leave the plate of food in front of him. He can’t have told his father about the incident earlier, or I would have already paid for it. But why not? The Kaiser trades favor for information, and even though Prinz Søren is his only son and heir, he must be struggling for favor more than anyone. The Kalovaxian monarchy is rooted more in strength than blood, and half the time when an old monarch dies, he refuses to name his son as successor and the other families at court take the opportunity to make a grab for power. The history books say that it’s always bloody and that the process can drag on for years.

But the Prinz isn’t weak. Even before he returned, the court was abuzz with his heroics in battle, how strong and valiant he was, what a great kaiser he would make one day. The Kaiser hasn’t fought in battle in decades now—unusual for kaisers, who often remain warriors until their deaths. Prinz Søren’s strength is only highlighting the Kaiser’s weakness, and that is something I’m sure the Kaiser will make him pay for now that he’s back at court.

I don’t know why the Prinz wouldn’t take what favor he could.

A slave boy appears next to me, piling my plate with fish grilled with spices in the Astrean tradition. Most Kalovaxians have a difficult time stomaching Astrean food, but on nights like this they insist on trying. It’s more of a symbol than anything else, after all. The food, the music, the clothes are all Astrean, but Astreans themselves—ourselves—are no longer allowed to exist.

This music picks up and my mind goes back to my mother. It’s the kind of music she used to dance to, her skirts flaring out around her legs as she twirled, spinning me with her until we were both dizzy and giddy. It’s the kind of music she and Ampelio used to sway to, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. These people don’t deserve to hear it; they don’t deserve any of this. I keep my hands in my lap to hide my clenching fists.

The slave boy bumps against my shoulder as he places another fillet on my plate, and I think nothing of it. I don’t let myself look at him this close to the Kaiser, who has had Astreans beheaded in front of me for an innocent glance. I have enough blood on my hands for one day.

I stare at my plate instead, watching as ashes flake down, counting them. It’s the only way I’ll make it through dinner without screaming.

The slave bumps my shoulder again, this time for no reason at all. The Kaiser, mercifully, is deep in conversation with some visiting lord whose name I don’t know, but the Kaiserin’s milky, distant eyes flicker to me and narrow briefly before darting away.

Everyone says she’s going mad, but I’ve seen a clarity in her eyes at times that is paralyzing, as if she’s waking up in a world she suddenly doesn’t understand. Tonight that clarity is not there. The main course hasn’t even been served yet and she’s already deep in her cups.

No one else notices the Kaiserin. As usual, their eyes glaze over her like she’s a ghost, pale and silent and eerie. I’m not entirely sure she isn’t.

My plate is piled with more fish than I can possibly eat, but the boy doesn’t move away. He must have a death wish.

“Is there anything else you need, my lady?” he asks in my ear. “Wine, perhaps?”

Something in his voice prickles a memory, though I can’t place it. I steal a glance, hoping not to be noticed, and when my eyes meet the slave’s, I freeze.

His face is gaunt, and he has black hair cropped close to his scalp. His chin is covered in stubble and there’s a hardness in his jaw, like he’s either angry or hungry. A puckered white scar slices across deep olive skin. But I see the shadow of an apple-cheeked boy sitting next to me in the palace playroom before the siege, always competing for our teacher’s favor as she taught us how to write. I remember Astrean words that flowed like water from our quills, his name and my name side by side. I see races I always lost because my legs weren’t as long as his. I see solemn green eyes inspecting my scraped knee and I hear his gentle voice telling me it’ll be fine, to stop crying.