“She’s trying to build an army,” I say when I’m done, reaching for the roll of gauze. “An army of women like her, placed high in society. Here and abroad. She doesn’t just want Astrea; she doesn’t just want to rule the Kalovaxians. She wants a new world.”

S?ren shakes his head. “As I said, she isn’t well,” he says. “It’s a delusion—she’ll keep killing girls.”

“Most of them, yes,” I say, wrapping the bandage around his torso until there is no skin showing through at all. “But not all. A fraction must have survived, just like she did. Just like I did. And they have that poison in their veins now as well. Weaker poison, yes, but maybe still strong enough to turn others, who could turn others.”

“It can spread like a disease,” he says, looking at me. “Killing almost everyone it infects but changing the few it doesn’t.”

I nod. “The Kalovaxian court doesn’t want her for a Kaiserin, so she’s creating enough loyal followers to cow those who would dethrone her.”

S?ren doesn’t say anything at first, but I can see his mind whirring.

“At this rate, the Kalovaxians will weaken themselves,” he says. “There’s a chance, if we let them carry on like this, fighting one another, that in a few years they won’t be a threat at all.”

“A chance, just as there’s a chance they’ll grow too strong to ever stop,” I repeat. “And besides, we don’t have years.”

I don’t meet his gaze as I start spreading ointment over his arms. The muscles there have softened in his three weeks in the dungeon.

“Do you pity her?” he asks me quietly.

If anyone else asked me that question, I would deny it. Of course I don’t pity her. She has committed more atrocities than I can possibly count. She’s ruined lives. She even tried to take mine. I know who my enemies are.

But it isn’t just anyone asking. It’s S?ren, and S?ren has always understood the darkest, most conflicted parts of me.

“Yes, I pity her,” I admit. “And I hate her and I love her, too. I don’t know how all of those things can be true at once, but they are. It doesn’t matter, though, because soon the time will come, and this time I won’t hesitate to destroy her. I can’t.”

He absorbs my words, nodding slowly. “And I’ll be right there, at your side,” he says solemnly.

His eyes meet mine, and I realize how much I missed those eyes. I forgot how bright a blue they are, bluer than the sea itself. They aren’t his father’s eyes anymore, not in my mind. They are all S?ren. I touch his right cheek, the just-healed wound pressing into my palm.

“I know you will be,” I say softly. “I missed you, S?ren. So very much.”

He leans into my touch and closes his eyes.

“I missed you too,” he says.

I softly brush my lips over his, aware of how fragile he is, though it seems laughable to think of him that way. But he is—I can feel it in his sharp intake of breath before he kisses me back, his hand resting on the nape of my neck, anchoring me to him. It feels like a revelation, like waking up after a long sleep. It feels like we’re making up for what we’ve lost.

I want to keep kissing him for hours, to celebrate the fact that we are here and we are alive and we are together even though neither of us thought we would be again. I want to lose myself to his touch and forget about everything else. But that isn’t what he needs right now—he needs rest and food and water. And we need to figure out where we go from here, where we strike next.

Besides, we have time.

So I break the kiss and instead I just hold him and he holds me and we try to convince ourselves that we’re real and here and together until we begin to actually believe it.

I LEAVE S?REN SO HE CAN get some rest. I barely make it to the tent’s entrance before his snoring begins, and I know he’ll likely sleep for some time. He needs to, after all he’s been through—and I’m sure he didn’t tell me everything. I only hope that Cress doesn’t plague his sleeping mind the way she plagued mine, even before whatever connection between us was forged.

It’s nearly midnight by the time I get back to the camp, and I would like nothing more than to fall into a bed of my own. After today, every muscle in my body yearns for sleep, but I know my mind won’t let me find that kind of peace. There is still one more thing left to do.

So instead I ask after Blaise, and a kind warrior I dimly recognize as one of Maile’s men points me toward the northern edge of the camp, just outside the gates.

There’s a chill in the air, and as soon as I step through the gates, it gets even colder. I pull my linen shawl tighter around my shoulders and look around for Blaise. In the dark, he should be difficult to find, but instead he is impossible to miss.

He stands alone on the lake’s shore, the moon shining down on him, illuminating his tawny skin and making it look like brown topaz. He moves like there’s no one watching, sword in hand. He slices the blade through the air one way, then another, never stopping even to breathe.

Blaise is not a great swordsman, though I don’t think I ever realized that until this moment. He could likely defend himself if he needed to, could possibly even hold his own in battle for a time, but Artemisia would defeat him in an instant and so would many others. It isn’t a skill that comes naturally to him, and I don’t think he’s put enough practice in to truly excel at it.

He also doesn’t know how to pace himself, and within minutes he is out of breath, his sword arm falling and the blade dropping unceremoniously into the rough sand in a way that would make Artemisia scowl.

It’s then that he sees me, his eyes widening for an instant. He stands a little straighter, dropping the sword altogether.

“How long have you been there?” he asks me.

“Only a minute,” I say, stepping closer now that he’s no longer waving his sword through the air. “I wanted to see how you were. After earlier.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. He looks to be at war with himself, but the battle only lasts the span of a breath. “After I tried to attack you in a fit of desperation, or after you had Heron knock me unconscious to keep it from happening again?” he asks.

I take a step back and ready myself for the fight I knew was inevitable. It seems like all we ever do is fight these days, and I am so tired of it.

“Both, I suppose,” I say, keeping my voice level. “And if you’re looking for an apology for keeping you out of the mirage plot, you won’t get one. Tensions were already high, and I couldn’t risk you becoming volatile again and ruining the entire plan. You’re unpredictable, and today you weren’t worth the risk.”

He stares at me for a moment, expression unreadable, before he shakes his head. “I’m not looking for an apology from you, Theo,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t expect one and I don’t deserve one. You made the right choice and I’m glad it all went smoothly. I can’t say with any certainty that it would have if I had been there.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. I’ve gotten so used to Blaise being hotheaded and reckless, I forgot how it used to feel when we were on the same side of an argument. “Good, then. And I hope you know that I’ll keep doing it, so long as you pose a threat.”

“You won’t have to,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”

I laugh, but there is no mirth in the sound. “Of course it will, Blaise. And I think we’re done pretending otherwise,” I say.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean that I won’t be losing control again because I won’t be using my gift again. At all. Not in battle, not casually, not even when it’s begging to be unleashed.”

Whatever I expected Blaise to say, it wasn’t that. I expected anger, I expected a fight—I always do now, whenever we speak. I came with battle armor on, sword at the ready, and here he is waving a white flag, and I don’t know how to respond.

“Why?” is all I can ask.

His jaw clenches and he looks toward where the sea laps peacefully at the shore. When he speaks, his voice is level and sure. “Because when we stood by that lake and I…I grabbed you like that—it wasn’t like it has been before, when I lost control. It wasn’t the power consuming me, taking control of my actions. I can’t blame it on my gift. It was me, so desperate to give in to the temptation to use my gift that it overwhelmed me, that it defined me, that it made me a person who would hurt you. And that scared me more than any battle. I don’t want to be that person. I knew that this power came with a cost and I was happy to pay it myself, but not like that. Not through you.”

It’s all I’ve wanted him to say for months, and though the words send relief washing over me, they are somehow not quite enough. I still feel his hands on me, his fingers digging into my skin, hurting me.

“I’m glad,” I tell him, which is more or less true.

He glances away, chewing hard on his bottom lip, as if he hears the words I don’t say. Maybe he does. In some ways, Blaise knows me better than anyone else in this world. He’s the only soul alive who knew me before all of this, before the rebellion and the siege, back when we were children and the world was so much simpler.