“You’ll be wary of how you speak to your queen,” he says, and though his voice is soft, there is a level of danger there.

Dragonsbane’s eyebrows dart up in amusement. “I was merely sharing some advice with my niece. People say things, and we must be aware of them before they hurt us.”

“Then let them say as much to my face,” I tell her, keeping my voice cold. “In the meantime, you’ll give him half of my rations.”

“And mine,” Heron says a second later.

For a second, I think Artemisia might repeat the sentiment, but in the presence of her mother, she’s shrunken in on herself, quiet and unsure for the first time since I’ve met her. I understand. After all, I don’t have many memories of my mother angry, but I’m sure she looked the same way Dragonsbane looks at me now—jaw tight, eyes hard, mouth pursed. I can’t help but feel like a child again, about to be sent to my room. But I am not a child. I am a queen, and I have faced far worse than her. So I stand straight and meet her gaze until she finally drops hers and speaks:

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”