I reach out to touch the living metal, warm and pliant. What a comfort it would be to wear a mask again, to remind all who encounter me of what I am.

“I thank you, Quin.” I run a finger along the pale slashes that mark my cheeks. “But I’ve gotten used to the scars.”

He nods and pockets it, before taking in my mud-spattered armor, my scuffed boots. About the only part of me that’s neat is my hair, and only because Laia insisted on re-braiding it while I was eating.

“A bit of mud on my armor won’t hurt, Quin,” I say. “It will remind the Paters that we just won a battle.”

“Your call,” he says. “The Emperor is en route and will be here within the hour. We have a pavilion ready for you and him in the garrison’s training grounds. Keris’s generals are chained and waiting to swear fealty there. I’ve had the troops form up, as you requested.”

Laia and the others join me, and we make our way through the empty camp, toward the vast training grounds, wide enough to accommodate the army: three thousand Martials and Scholars, and another two thousand Tribespeople—some of whom will settle in Estium while the Empire helps rebuild the cities of the Tribal desert.

A viewing area overlooks the grounds, and I make for a black canopy slung over a dozen chairs. Only a few yards away, Keris’s allies kneel in a row, chained to rings in the earth.

The clatter of hooves breaks up the buzz of conversation. A column of Masks led by Dex enters the grounds, with a carriage following. When it rolls to a stop, Coralia and Mariana Farrar emerge, Zacharias held to Coralia’s shoulder. He is fast asleep. Tas pops out afterward, and when he sees Laia, he runs straight for her.

“You’re alive!” He nearly bowls her over with the force of his hug. “Rallius owes me and Dex ten marks. Rallius—” The boy runs back to the big Mask, who shifts uneasily under Laia’s flinty gaze.

I’m inclined to run to my nephew, but I merely quicken my step, meeting him at the pavilion. Mariana murmurs a greeting, while Coralia drops into a half curtsy.

“Hail, Blood Shrike,” she says. “He was in a bit of a mood when he fell asleep.”

“Likely he’s as excited as I am about sitting through this.” I kiss my nephew gently on the head, hoping he’ll sleep through what will no doubt be a great deal of gibbering and groveling from Keris’s former allies.

Coralia winces when Zacharias shifts, fearful he will wake. But to my surprise, Mamie steps forward and takes the child with firm hands. He opens his eyes, looks around, and scowls, his tiny nose red.

“He should not be in such thin clothing.” Mamie glowers at Coralia and Mariana, and holds a hand out to Laia. The Scholar offers her cloak without a moment’s hesitation. Mamie wraps Zacharias in it, offering him her brilliant smile. He stares at her as if she is the most fascinating person he’s ever seen. Then he smiles back.

“Do not worry for the child.” Mamie dismisses Coralia and Mariana with a wave. “I will make sure he does not disturb you.”

“Blood Shrike.” Musa settles into a seat behind me and looks to the other end of the grounds. “Your audience has arrived.”

I follow his gaze to the half a hundred Scholars in attendance—many familiar from Antium. Close by, hundreds of finely dressed men and women file into the viewing area. Paters and Maters from all over the Empire. Some are my allies, and some were Keris’s. There are as many Mercators and Plebeians as there are Illustrians. All told, they represent nearly five hundred of the Empire’s most powerful families.

Quin glances over and I nod approvingly. When those Paters and Maters witness Keris’s most stalwart allies on their knees, they will know to never challenge our emperor again.

The Tribal Zaldars appear soon after, and once they are seated, Quin steps out from the pavilion.

“Paters and Maters, Scholars and Tribespeople—I beg your attention.” Quin’s voice booms across the training field and up the terraced seats.

“Five centuries ago,” Quin says, “Taius was named Imperator Invictus for his prowess in battle. In time, he was named Emperor. Not because of his family. Not because he ruled by fear. And not because a group of white-haired mystics decided they knew what was best for the Empire. Taius was hailed Imperator Invictus because when our people suffered, he saved them. When they were divided, he united them.”

I frown at Quin and glance at the Scholars. “United them” is a rather inaccurate way of saying “decimated and enslaved our enemy.” This was not the speech he and I agreed upon.

“Like Taius, Helene Aquilla fought for our people—”

I start. Quin did not call me Blood Shrike. Instantly, I understand his intention.

“Quin,” I hiss.

But the old man thunders on. “Helene Aquilla could have left Antium to suffer the yoke of Karkaun rulership,” he says. “Instead, she rallied her troops and liberated the city. Helene Aquilla could have fallen to despair when her sister, the Empress Regent, was killed. Instead, she called up her army to seek revenge on the greatest traitor the Empire has ever known—Keris Veturia. Helene Aquilla could have stolen back the Empire for her nephew. Instead, she fought for all of the living—Scholars, Tribespeople, and Martials alike.”

“Gird your loins, Shrike.” Musa gives me a sidelong glance. “You’re about to get quite the promotion.”

“We have been torn asunder by civil war,” Quin goes on. “A fourth of our standing army lies dead. We betrayed and destroyed cities in our own protectorate. Our Empire stands on the brink of dissolution. We do not need a regent. We need an Imperator Invictus. We need an empress.”

He turns and points at me. “And there she stands.”

At that moment, the sun, drifting in and out of the clouds all morning, breaks through, washing the training ground and the river beyond in pale light.

“Witness!” Quin isn’t one to waste a moment of drama. “Witness how the skies crown her!”

The sun hits my braid and the crowd titters in awe. A part of me wishes Laia hadn’t re-braided it, for if my hair was a mess, perhaps this nonsense would end.

“Empress! Empress!” The chant begins with the Martial army. It spreads to the leaders of the Plebeian Gens. Then the Illustrians. The Mercators.

The Scholars remain silent. So do the Tribespeople.

As they should. For I cannot accept the crown. My nephew still lives. He is Emperor, no matter what Quin says.

“I don’t want this.” I glare at Quin. “I don’t even want to be the bleeding regent. We have an emperor.”

“Shrike.” Quin lowers his voice. “Your first duty is not to yourself or your Gens or even your nephew. It is to the Empire. We need your strength. Your wisdom.”

The Martials still shout. “Empress! Empress! Empress!”

Harper, I think. What the bleeding hells do I do? What do I say? But he is not here. Instead, Laia speaks up from beside me.

“The Augur prophecy, Helene.” And before I can tell her to call me Shrike, she grasps my shoulder, turning me toward her. “Do you remember? It was never one. It was always three. The Blood Shrike is the first. Laia of Serra, the second. And the Soul Catcher is the last. What is your beginning, Shrike? It is Blackcliff. And what are the words carved on Blackcliff’s belltower?”

“From among the battle-hardened youth there shall rise the Foretold, the Greatest Emperor, scourge of our enemies, commander of a host most devastating.” I feel faint as I say it, because now, I see what Laia is getting at. For in her way, she, too, survived Blackcliff. She, too, is a battle-hardened youth.

The chanting goes on, the crowd hardly noticing the conversation going on beneath the pavilion.“And the Empire shall be made whole.”

“I’m the second: the scourge,” Laia says. “Elias was the last: the commander. And you—”

“The first,” I say faintly. The Greatest Emperor. So Cain had known. Skies, he as good as told me, months ago, the first time I sought him out in his blasted cave.

You are my masterpiece, Helene Aquilla, he’d said, but I have just begun. If you survive, you shall be a force to be reckoned with in this world.

“Empress! Empress!”

“The Augurs knew, Helene,” Laia says. “This is your destiny. And the Empire shall be made whole. It means you can change things. Make them better.”

“But will you?” Afya says. “Will you renegotiate the Tribes’ place in the Empire, Helene Aquilla? The Scholars’? If you don’t, we cannot support you.”

“I will,” I say, for if I make this promise, I’ll have to keep it. And the Empire shall be made whole. “I swear it.”

“Empress! Empress! Empress!”

The sound echoes in my head, too heavy a burden, and I raise my hands, desperate for it to stop.