But when her eyes meet mine, they are burning with venom. Her gaze is lethal, but not to me. Her anger only feeds mine, until we are matched, hate for hate.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispers, stumbling over the Astrean words. I’m surprised she even knows them.

Your Majesty. The Kalovaxians don’t use that term, so the only person I’ve heard referred to that way was my mother. I know Elpis means well, but hearing it now makes my heart ache.

I’m not anyone’s majesty, I want to tell her.

“Are there people you trust implicitly?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation.

“That’s the wrong answer. You trust no one until they have earned it. I’ve made that mistake before and suffered for it. But the Kaiser won’t find punishing you worth his time. He’ll kill you, do you understand?”

She bites her lip before remembering that we’re being watched. “Yes, I get the joke,” she says with a laugh that sounds surprisingly natural. She doesn’t bother to lower her voice or speak in Astrean. Good girl, giving them something, even if it’s nothing.

“The only person I want you to trust is a boy. He was serving the banquet yesterday. A little older than me, with black hair cut close? Taller than most men, with bright green eyes. And a scar here,” I add, tracing a finger from my temple to the corner of my mouth, but making it look like I’m scratching an itch.

Elpis nods slowly. “I believe I know him,” she says.

“You think, or you know?” I press.

“I…I know,” she says, sounding more certain. “There aren’t many young men working in the palace, but one started two days ago. He had paperwork releasing him from the mines?”

Forged, I’m sure, and not likely to last long before that’s discovered.

“That’s the one,” I say in Kalovaxian.

She gives me a small smile. “You could have just said the handsome one. He’s had all the girls swooning over him.”

I stifle a laugh. “Can you get a message to him?”

“Yes, it shouldn’t be difficult. Lady Crescentia doesn’t notice much, particularly when she has a new book to occupy her mind. Her father keeps closer tabs on us, but he left to survey the mines yesterday afternoon.”

More useful information, though hardly the good kind. I can only imagine what the Theyn’s visit to the mines will entail, but I’m sure it will come with a body count.

“Good,” I say. “Introduce yourself to him. Tell him I sent you.” I know he won’t believe her—it’s exactly what the Kaiser’s spy would say to catch us. “We were children together in the palace, before the siege. Our nanny’s name was Sofia, but we called her Birdie because she had the prettiest voice. If he questions your story, tell him I said that.”

“And what would you like me to tell him?” she asks me.

“Tell him…tell him I have some news and I need a way to meet with him in person.”

DAYS PASS FILLED WITH FEAR that any moment now my Shadows will tell the Kaiser I spoke with Elpis. It won’t matter that they didn’t hear what was said, I’ll pay for it all the same. It was worth it—I know it was worth it—but that doesn’t make it any easier to wait for the ax to fall. I sleep little, and when I do manage to dream, all I see is Ampelio dying over and over again. Sometimes Blaise takes his place. Sometimes Elpis. Sometimes it’s Crescentia lying at my feet, begging for her life while I hold a blade to her throat.

No matter who it is, the dream always ends the same and I always wake screaming. My Shadows don’t react. They’re used to it by now.

It’s been four days since seeing the ships. Five days since I met with Blaise. All I have been able to do is wait for him to make contact like he said he would. It’s almost easy to slip into life as Thora again, attending luncheons and dances and spending afternoons with Cress in her father’s library. But I force myself to remember who I am.

I keep my mind busy and think about the Vecturia Islands. What could be happening there that requires a fleet of warships and the Prinz himself as a commandant? It could be that the Prinz was telling the truth and Erik was only confused—that Dragonsbane is troubling the trade route. But the more I think about it, the less sense that makes. They wouldn’t need that many ships with that much ammunition if they were squaring off against just Dragonsbane’s small fleet. Dragonsbane might be a thorn in the Kaiser’s side, but removing it would require a knife, not a cannonball.

Yet Vecturia isn’t Astrea, I remind myself. Their problems aren’t mine, and I have my own people to think about.

And it might turn out to be nothing. Prinz Søren and Erik were secretive, yes, but it’s possible it’s to hide something else. I’ve heard tales of Prinz Søren’s skills in battle, but they’ve always been secondhand and they could be greatly exaggerated in order to make the Prinz appear godlike.

If I could just speak to Blaise again, I could tell him what I know and see what he thought about it. He might even have another piece of the puzzle to help make sense of it. But there has been no word from him since our meeting in the cellar. He said he had an idea about how we could speak more, but I’m starting to lose hope. There have even been some darker moments when I wonder if I made him up.

There’s a knock at the door—stiff and formal, not Cress’s light, melodic tap. Hoa is heating up a pair of hair tongs in the fireplace, so I go to answer it. My feet are made of stone. The only people who knock like that are guards, and I don’t have to guess at what they want. My welts from the mine riot haven’t fully healed yet. The idea of a whip reopening them sends shudders through me that won’t be quelled.

I shouldn’t have spoken to Elpis. I shouldn’t have met with Blaise.

I take one last shaky breath before opening the door. A stern guard stands on the other side dressed in a crimson jacket, and my heart all but ceases to beat. He isn’t one of the Kaiser’s men, though. Great as their numbers are, I would know their faces anywhere by now. They’re burned into my memory so deeply they even haunt my nightmares. This man isn’t one of them but I don’t know if that’s better or worse.

He produces a square envelope from the pocket of his jacket and passes it to me, his expression frozen in a thin, straight line.

“From His Royal Highness, Prinz Søren,” he says, as if the royal crest emblazoned on the front weren’t enough of a clue. “He asked that I wait here for a reply.”

Numb with relief and shock, I tear the envelope open with the corner of my pinky nail and skim the Prinz’s hastily scrawled words.