It’s easy to act like a damsel in need of rescuing. All it takes are wide eyes, tentative smiles, and a wolf at my heels. “I don’t think your father would approve,” I say.

He frowns and drops his gaze. “I wasn’t planning on telling him,” he admits.

I can’t help but laugh. “Someone would have,” I say. “You’ve been gone for a long time, Søren, but ask anyone—your father sees everything that happens in this palace. Especially where I’m concerned.”

Søren’s frown deepens. “You’ve been with us for ten years,” he says. “You’re more Kalovaxian than not at this point.”

I think he means the words as a comfort, but they strike me like daggers.

“You might be right,” I say instead of arguing. It’s time to play the card Cress left me, the one that will make me more a damsel in distress to him than ever. “He’s planning to marry me to a Kalovaxian man soon.”

“Where did you hear that?” he asks, alarmed. I suppress a smile and try to look troubled, biting my lip and wringing my hands.

“Crescentia overheard her father and yours talking about it. I suppose it makes sense. I’m of age, and as you said, I’ve been a Kalovaxian now longer than I was an Astrean.”

“Marry you to who?”

I shrug but let my expression cloud over. “She mentioned that Lord Dalgaard offered the most to own the last Princess of Astrea,” I say, letting just a touch of acid into my voice.

It’s treason to even use that title to describe myself, but Søren seems to like flashes of honesty. It’s a gamble, yes, but all of this is a gamble. One wrong move will leave me buried.

Søren swallows and drops his gaze. He’s likely been in more battles than I can name, but the threat of Lord Dalgaard leaves him speechless. He glances past my shoulder to where his guards are waiting, just out of earshot.

I reach out to touch his arm lightly and lower my voice.

“I’ve done everything your father’s asked of me, Søren, given him everything he’s asked of me without complaint, trying to show that I can be a loyal citizen here. But please, please, don’t let him do this,” I plead. “You know about Lord Dalgaard and his poor wives. I have no dowry, no family, no standing. No one would care what happens to me. I’m sure that’s part of the appeal for him.”

His expression hardens into granite. “I can’t go against my father, Thora.”

I drop my hand and shake my head. I take a breath as if to steady myself and stand up a little straighter. When I look at Søren again, I let another layer of my mask fall into place, this one cold as ice.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I say stiffly. “I overstepped and I shouldn’t have. I just thought you were…I wanted…” I shake my head and let my eyes linger on his, full of disappointment, before tearing them away and blinking hard, like I might cry at any second. “I should go.”

I turn to leave, but just as I hope, he reaches out to take hold of my arm. From there, it’s only a small twitch of a muscle, an infinitesimal drop of my shoulder that causes the already loose sleeve of my dress to fall, giving him a glimpse of the scars covering my back. He knew they were there; he was present when some of the older ones were given. Still, I hear his sharp intake of breath at the sight. I pull my arm from his grasp and hastily yank the sleeve back up to cover them, keeping my eyes lowered as if the scars shame me.

“I’m sorry,” he says as I hurry away from him.

I’m not sure what exactly he’s apologizing for, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to look at him to know that I have him where I need him: ready to leap to my rescue, even if it digs a chasm between him and his father in the process. All I have to do now is wait for the results and hope they don’t cost me too dearly.

HOA ISN’T IN MY ROOM when I return, but I’m hardly alone. The doors of my Shadows’ rooms scrape open and closed, followed by sounds of them settling in: sheathed swords unclasping, helmets clattering to the floor. I ignore them, as I always do, and stand by the window, looking out at the empty garden so that they can’t see my face.

How long will I have to wait for Søren’s next move? If it comes at all.

I think of the look in his eyes when I turned away. This is only just starting. He’ll go to his father with some pressing reason to end my engagement before it starts. He won’t come out and say it’s to protect me—Søren’s too clever for that—but there are other ways, other reasons for a betrothal to fall through. Crescentia’s had three marriage proposals too good to outright reject, but the betrothals never quite become official due to Cress’s meddling.

I can only hope that the Kaiser doesn’t suspect I had anything to do with Søren’s sudden interest in my betrothal. At best, it’ll mean another whipping. At worst, he’ll marry me to Lord Dalgaard immediately. And then how long would it take before my mind truly broke? There would be no coming back from that. I would die Thora.

“When you turned down his lunch invitation, I thought you truly were mad,” a voice says. Terror turns my blood to ice. I spin, but the room is empty.

“But he seems more interested than ever,” the voice goes on. “Well done.”

Blaise. His voice is muffled, but it’s unmistakably him. He’s the mad one, coming here knowing full well that my Shadows watch my every move.

“Here, Theo,” he says. There’s laughter there that reminds me of when we were children together, before laughter became such a rarity.

I follow the sound, walking to the eastern wall, to where one of my Shadows sits on the other side, watching. A Shadow.

“I seem to have underestimated you as well,” I say. I peer through the hole in the wall to find Blaise’s green eye staring back. “Though I’m sure you remember I have three Shadows?”

“Say hello to Artemisia and Heron,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “Art, Heron—Queen Theodosia Eirene Houzzara. It’s a bit of a mouthful. Would you have them beheaded if we shortened it to Theo for the time being?”

Hearing that word again—queen—is still strange, especially hearing it in Astrean. It’s my mother’s title, or it was. Every time I hear it, I can’t help wanting to look around for my mother, sure it’s her they’re referring to.

“So long as you don’t call me Thora,” I say, straightening up and glancing at the other walls, now occupied by other Astreans. “Artemisia, Heron, pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is ours,” a low, soft voice says from behind the northern wall. Heron, I assume.