Her first words are in a language I do not know. Lakelander. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, one word flowing into the next like a spoken song, like water. Then, in accented Nortan—

“I put my hand in yours, and pledge my life to yours,” she replies, after her own traditions and the customs of her kingdom. “I accept, Your Majesty.”

He puts his bare hand out to take hers, the bracelet at his wrist sparking as he moves. A current of fire hits the air, snakelike and curling around their joined fingers. It does not burn her, though it certainly passes close enough to try. Iris never flinches. Never blinks.

And so one war is ended.

SEVENTEEN

Mare

It takes many days to return to Archeon. Not because of the distance. Not because the king of the Lakelands brought no less than one thousand people with him, courtiers and soldiers and even Red servants. But because the entire kingdom of Norta suddenly has something to celebrate. The end of a war, and an upcoming wedding. Maven’s now-endless convoy snakes down the Iron Road and then the Royal Road at a crawl. Silvers and Reds alike turn out to cheer, begging for a glimpse of their king. Maven always obliges, stopping to meet crowds with Iris at his side. Despite the deeply bred hatred for the Lakelands we are supposed to have, Nortans bow before her. She is a curiosity and a blessing. A bridge. Even King Orrec receives lukewarm welcomes. Polite clapping, respectful bows. An old enemy turned into an ally for the long road ahead.

That’s what Maven says at every turn. “Norta and the Lakelands stand united now, bound together for the long road ahead. Against all dangers threatening our kingdoms.” He means the Scarlet Guard. He means Corvium. He means Cal, the rebelling houses, anything and everything that might threaten his tenuous grip on power.

There is no one alive to remember the days before war. My country does not know what peace looks like. No wonder they mistake this for peace. I want to scream at every Red face I pass. I want to carve the words on my body so everyone has to see. Trap. Lie. Conspiracy. Not that my words mean anything anymore. I’ve been someone else’s puppet for too long. My voice is not my own. Only my actions are, and those are severely limited by circumstances. I would despair of myself if I could, but my days of wallowing are long behind me. They have to be. Or else I will simply drown, a hollow doll dragged behind a child, empty in every inch.

I will escape. I will escape. I will escape. I don’t dare whisper the words aloud. They run through my mind instead, their rhythm in time with my heartbeat.

No one speaks to me during our journey. Not even Maven. He’s busy feeling out his new betrothed. I get the sense she knows what kind of person he is, and is prepared for him. As with her father, I hope they kill each other.

The tall spires of Archeon are familiar, but not a comfort. The convoy rolls back into the jaws of a cage I know all too well. Through the city, up the steep roads to the palatial compound of Caesar’s Square and Whitefire. The sun is deceptively bright against a clear blue sky. It’s almost spring. Strange. Part of me thought winter would last forever, mirroring my imprisonment. I don’t know if I can stomach watching the seasons turn from inside my royal cell.

I will escape. I will escape. I will escape.

Egg and Trio all but pass me between each other, pulling me down from the transport and marching me up the steps of Whitefire. The air is warm, wet, smelling fresh and clean. A few more minutes in the sunlight and I might start sweating beneath my scarlet-and-silver jacket. But I’m inside the palace again in a few seconds, walking beneath a king’s ransom of chandeliers. They don’t bother me so much, not after my first and only escape attempt. In fact, they almost make me smile.

“Happy to be home?”

I’m equally startled by someone speaking to me and by exactly who is speaking to me.

I resist the deep urge to bow, keeping my spine straight as I stop to face her. The Arvens halt as well, close enough to grab me if they have to. I feel a ripple of their ability draining bits of my energy. Her own guards are just as on edge, their attentions on the hall around us. I suppose they still think of Archeon and Norta as enemy territory.

“Princess,” I reply. The title tastes sour, but I don’t see much use in directly antagonizing yet another one of Maven’s betrotheds.

Her traveling outfit is deceptively plain. Just leggings and a dark blue jacket, cinched at the waist to better show her hourglass figure. No jewelry, no crown. Her hair is simple, pulled back into a single black braid. She could pass for a normal Silver. Wealthy, but not royal. Even her face remains neutral. No smile, no sneer. No judgment of the lightning girl in her chains. Compared to the nobles I’ve known, it makes for a jarring contrast and an inconvenient one. I know nothing about her. For all I know, she could be worse than Evangeline. Or even Elara. I have no idea who this young woman is, or what she thinks of me. It makes me uneasy.

And Iris can tell.

“No, I would think not,” she pushes on. “Walk with me?”

She puts out a hand, crooking it in invitation. There is a decent chance my eyes bug out of my head. But I do as she asks. She sets a quick but not impossible pace, forcing both sets of guards to follow us through the entrance hall.

“Despite the name, Whitefire seems a cold place.” Iris looks up at the ceiling. The chandeliers reflect in her gray eyes, making them starry. “I would not want to be imprisoned here.”

I scoff deep in my throat. The poor fool is about to be Maven’s queen. I can think of no worse prison than that.