He was just blowing on the ink when he heard the door open.

His heart quickened, hope rising as he turned, expecting to find his wife.

“My dearest …” He trailed off at the sight of the girl, fair and blond and dressed in green, a crown of silver in her hair and crimson splashed like paint across her front.

The Veskan princess smiled. She had four polished blades between her fingers, thin as needles and each dripping blood, and when she spoke, her voice was easy, bright, as if she weren’t trespassing in the royal chamber, as if there were no bodies in the hall behind her, no blood smeared on her brow.

“Your Majesty! I was hoping you’d be here.”

Maxim held his ground. “Princess, what are you—”

Before he could finish, the first blade came sailing through the air, and by the time the king had his hand up, magic rising to turn the blow, a second knife was driving down through his boot, pinning his foot to the floor.

A growl of pain escaped as Maxim attempted to pivot, even so, to avoid a third blade, only to take a fourth through the arm. This one hadn’t flown—it was still in his attacker’s hand as she drove the steel in deep above his elbow, pinning his arm back against the wall.

It had taken less than a full breath.

The Veskan princess was standing on tiptoes as if she meant to kiss him. She was so young, to seem so old.

“You don’t look well,” she said.

Maxim’s head pounded. He’d given too much of himself to the spell. Had too little strength left to summon magic for a fight. But there was still the blade sheathed at his hip. Another on his calf. His fingers twitched, but before he could grab either, one of Cora’s discarded blades sailed back into her fingers.

She brought it to rest against his throat.

Maxim’s arm and foot were going numb—not from pain alone, but something else.

“Poison,” he growled.

Her head bobbed. “It won’t kill you,” she said cheerfully. “That’s my job. But you’ve been a lovely host.”

“What have you done? You foolish girl.”

Her smile sharpened into a sneer. “This foolish girl will bring glory to her name. This foolish girl will take your palace and hand your kingdom to her own.”

She leaned in close, voice slipping from sweet to sensual. “But first, this foolish girl will cut your throat.”

Through the open door, Maxim saw the fallen bodies of his guards littering the hall, their armored arms and legs sprawled motionless across the carpet.

And then he saw the streak of dark skin, the shine of gems like tears catching the light.

“You are out of your depth, Princess,” he said as the numbness spread through his limbs and the Faroans slipped silently forward, Sol-in-Ar in the lead. “Killing a king grants you only one thing.”

“And what is that?” she whispered.

Maxim met her eyes. “A slow death.”

Cora’s blade bit in as the Faroans flooded the room.

In a flash, Sol-in-Ar had the murderous girl back against him, one arm around her throat.

She spun the needlelike knife in her hand, moved to drive the point into the Faroan’s leg, but the others were on her fast, holding her arms, forcing her to her knees before Maxim.

The king tried to speak, and found his tongue heavy in his mouth, his body fighting too many foes between the poison and the cost of spent magic.

“Find the Arnesian guards!” ordered Sol-in-Ar.

Cora fought then, viciously, violently, all the girlish humor stripped away as they divested her of blades.

Maxim finally wrenched the knife free of his arm with half-numbed fingers and unpinned his foot, blood squelching in his boot as he moved with uneven steps to the sideboard.

He found the tonics Tieren kept mixed for him, those for pain and those for sleep, and one, just one, for poison, and poured himself a glass of the rosy liquid, as if he were simply thirsty and not fighting back death.

His fingers shook but he drank deeply, and set the empty glass aside as the feeling returned in a flush of heat, bringing pain with it. A new wave of guards appeared in the doorway, all of them breathless and armed, Isra at the front.

“Your Majesty,” she said, scanning the room and paling at the sight of the slight Veskan princess pinned to the floor, the Faroan lord giving orders instead of bound to his palace wing, the discarded knives and bloody trail of steps.

Maxim forced himself to straighten. “See to your guards,” he ordered.

“Your wounds,” started Isra, but the king cut her off.

“I am not so easily dispatched.” He turned to Sol-in-Ar. It had been a near thing, and they both knew it, but the Faroan lord said nothing.

“I am in your debt,” said Maxim. “And I will repay it.” Fearing he might fall over if he lingered long, Maxim turned his attention to the Veskan girl kneeling on his floor. “You failed, little princess, and it will cost you.”

Cora’s blue eyes were bright. “Not as much as you,” she said, her mouth splitting into a cold smile. “Unlike me, my brother Col has never missed his marks.”

Maxim’s blood ran cold as he spun on Isra and the other guards. “Where is the queen?”

III

Rhy hadn’t gone looking for his mother.

He found her entirely by accident.

Before the nightmares, he had always slept late. He’d lie in bed all morning, marveling at the way his pillows felt softest after sleep, or the way light moved against the canopied ceiling. For the first twenty years of his life, Rhy’s bed had been his favorite place in the palace.