Radu wished they were women. He had a much easier time with women. Men were harsh and hard and unmoving in the face of a quick, brilliant smile. Lada would know what to do. She would scowl and stick her nose in the air and dare any of them to think they were better than her. Radu stood straighter and pretended to be her.

“Can the boy ride?” one of the oldest Danesti boyars asked, his tone bored but with a slight challenge.

His father considered Radu, eyes hard. “Of course he can.”

Radu hurried along in the wake of his father and brother. He worried that he was not invited and would be punished, but he worried even more about what would happen if he was expected to come and failed to comply.

His Janissary friends were in the back of the stable, waiting for him. Lazar, the one with the gap-toothed smile and easy laugh, took in the scene—and Radu’s terrified expression—with a quick look. Radu had been riding with them nearly every day, and under their playful tutelage he had become comfortable, even skilled, in the saddle. He had also perhaps told them too much about his family. He hung his head as the horses that had been prepared for the riding party were brought out. There was not one for him, making it clear to everyone that he was not intended to be a part of this. Or a part of anything, for that matter.

As Radu watched his father mount, shame welling up and threatening to leak from his eyes, Lazar cleared his throat. “Your horse.” He held out the reins and nodded respectfully, as though Radu were more than a forgotten boy.

Radu took the reins, grinning, but then closed his mouth quickly and imitated Lazar’s detached formality. “Thank you.” He mounted as smoothly as he could, sitting straight in the saddle and nudging his horse forward to be level with Mircea’s. He clenched his fists around the leather straps so his fingers would not tremble. The party headed toward the forest, keeping together as they rode through an open field.

His father looked over and, as though once again surprised to see him existing, took in Radu’s excellent form. Radu’s chest swelled with pride to be here, riding with his father and his older brother, at the head of a group of boyars. Where he belonged. He lifted his chin higher and met his father’s eyes, anticipating a smile.

“Do not embarrass me,” his father said, tone flat, before urging his horse forward without another glance.

Radu’s chest collapsed, all his pride and hope turning ugly and sour in his stomach. The rest of the ride was a sweaty and uncomfortable slog among trees buzzing with insects. He let his horse fall back, ending up near the rear of the group with the less important boyars, who grumbled and gossiped among themselves, oblivious to his presence.

Twice branches whipped Radu’s face, leaving it stinging. But he did not cry out, and he did not break form. He listened to the conversations around him, and he noted when complaints were a bit too pointedly directed at the head of the group.

He embarrassed no one. He remained unnoticed and invisible.

It was, apparently, both the least and the most he could do for his father.

LADA COULD NOT BREATHE in the castle. A miasma of anxious fear hovered over everything. People gathered in dark corners, whispering. Her father threw banquet after banquet, trying to appease the boyars, who were growing increasingly open in their hostilities. Everywhere she went eyes followed her. Bogdan had been a sort of shield—always at her side, always obedient. Losing him would have been difficult enough, but she had also lost the love and worship she had nurtured for her father.

Now she could see how little her father actually cared for Wallachia. Everything he did was for himself, to protect his own power at whatever cost. The armor she imagined his love had given her had been stripped away, and without it, she was naked and vulnerable. Every day was precarious, every smile and interaction dangerous. One false move and perhaps she, too, would be discarded. Her father still favored her, and she suspected that, in his own way, he truly cared about her, but his love was as contemptible and flimsy as one of his endless string of false political promises.

She would be thirteen this summer. Her mother had married at thirteen.

Lada’s mouth tasted like blood and iron all the time now. It tasted like defeat. As she walked through the corridors one evening on her way to the kitchens, a boyar knocked her out of his way without so much as an apology. It made her feel small and unimportant.

She was small and unimportant.

She hurried to the gardens behind the castle courtyard, dunked her head in a fountain, and swished water through her mouth to rinse everything away. Muffled screams caught her attention. She knew that sound well, as she was usually the one causing it. A fierce possessiveness welled in her chest and she stormed through the garden, closing in on Radu and his assailant.