The room is empty of anyone but the royals and their guards. Eleiba goes to stand behind the king, her anxiety evident in the tap of her finger against her thigh.

The king has the shrunken look of a once robust man who has aged suddenly. Nikla appears powerful beside her frail father, though nothing like the simply garbed woman I saw in the prison cell. Her heavily embroidered gown is similar to mine, and her dark hair is arranged in an elaborate turquoise headdress that looks, remarkably, like a wave breaking on a shore.

At the wrath in her face, my steps falter, and I search out any exits in the throne room. I wish I’d brought a weapon with me.

But the princess merely glowers. She is not, I am relieved to see, surrounded by ghuls, though a few lurk in the shadows of the throne room.

“Ah, my wayward son-in-law returns.” The old man’s deep voice belies his frail appearance. “I’ve missed your wit, boy.”

“And I yours, Your Majesty.” Musa’s voice is sincere. He pointedly doesn’t look at Eleiba.

“Laia of Serra.” The crown princess ignores her husband—husband! “Welcome to Adisa. Long have we wished to meet you.”

Long have you wished to kill me, you mean. Hag. My irritation must show on my face, because Musa gives me a warning glance before dropping into a deep bow. Reluctantly, I emulate him. The lines around Nikla’s mouth tighten.

Oh skies. How can I speak to a king? I’m no one. How can I convince him of anything?

The king gestures for us to rise. “I knew your parents, Laia of Serra,” he says. “You have your father’s beauty. Handsome as a jinn, that one. No fire in him though. Not like the Lioness.” Irmand looks at me with interest. “Well, daughter of Mirra, you have a request? In honor of your late mother, who was a friend and ally for long years, I will hear it.”

Princes Nikla barely suppresses a grimace at the words friend and ally, and her dark eyes glint. My ire rises as I think of the things she said about my mother. As I remember what children in the city were saying about the Lioness. Nikla’s stare bores into me, a challenge writ there. Behind her, something dark and furtive flits behind one of the rose quartz pillars—a ghul.

A reminder of the darkness we face, one that makes me square my shoulders and meet the king’s gaze. I am not no one. I am Laia of Serra, and in this moment, I am the only voice my people have.

“The Scholars suffer needlessly, Your Majesty,” I say. “And you can stop it.”

I tell him of the fire in the refugee camp. Of all that the Scholars have lost. I tell him of the Empire’s war on my people, the Commandant’s genocide, the horrors of Kauf. And then, though Musa warned me not to, I speak of the Nightbringer. I am a Kehanni in this moment. And I must make them believe.

I do not dare to look at Musa until I finish the tale. His fists are clenched, knuckles white, gaze fixed on Nikla. As I told the story, my attention was on the king. I did not notice the ghuls emerging from the shadows and congregating around the princess. I did not notice them latching themselves on to her like leeches.

Musa looks as if he is watching the slow torture of someone he loves—which, I finally realize, he is.

“Help the Scholars, Your Grace,” I say. “They suffer when they do not have to. And prepare your armies. Whether the Nightbringer comes or not,” I say to the king, “you must—”

“I must?” The old man raises his eyebrows. “I must?”

“Yes,” I snap. “If you want your people to survive, you must prepare for war.”

Nikla steps toward me, hand on her weapon, before controlling herself. “Do not listen to her, Father. She is nothing. Just a little girl selling stories.”

“Don’t you belittle me.” I step forward, and everything fades—Eleiba’s hand on her weapon, the guards tensing, a murmered plea from Musa to calm down. “I am the daughter of the Lioness. I destroyed Blackcliff. I saved the life of Elias Veturius. I survived Commandant Keris Veturia. I survived the betrayals of the Resistance and the Nightbringer. I crossed the Empire and broke into Kauf Prison. I rescued my brother and hundreds of other Scholars. I am not nothing.” I turn to the king now. “If you do not prepare for war, Your Grace, and the Nightbringer unleashes his jinn, we will all fall.”

“And how do we do that, Laia of Serra, without Serric steel?” Princess Nikla says. “We know your brother still lives. Musa no doubt has him hidden away, hammering at weapons for your Resistance.”

“Darin of Serra is willing to make weaponry for the Mariners,” Musa cuts in smoothly, and I wonder when he talked to Darin about it. “And to teach Mariner smiths the trade. If an equal amount of weaponry is given to the Scholars and an equal number of Scholar smiths are taught. And if the Scholars who have lost their homes are given temporary quarters in the city, and employment.”

“Lies,” Nikla hisses. “Father, they seek to mislead you. They want only to arm their Resistance.”

As much as I want to talk back, I make myself ignore Nikla. It’s the king whom I must convince. “Your Majesty,” I say, “it’s a good offer. You won’t get a better one. The Martials certainly aren’t going to help you, and how else will you get Serric steel?”

The king observes me carefully now, and the sparkle of amusement in his eyes is gone. “You are bold, Laia of Serra, to tell a king what to do.”