A sword hung at his hip, a jeweled hilt marking the blade for show, but Rhy’s hackles still rose at the sight of it, at the prince’s carriage, his very presence. And then Emira’s attention flicked suddenly upward, as if she’d heard something Rhy couldn’t.

“Maxim.”

His father’s name was a strangled whisper on the queen’s lips, and she started toward the doors, only to come up short as Col drew his weapon free.

In that one gesture, everything about the Veskan changed. His youthful arrogance evaporated, the casual air replaced by something grim, determined. Col may have been a prince, but he held his sword with the calm control of a soldier.

“What are you doing?” demanded Rhy.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Col’s grip tightened on the blade. “I’m winning a war before it starts.”

“Lower your blade,” ordered the queen.

“Apologies, Your Highness, but I can’t.”

Rhy searched the prince’s eyes, hoping to see the shadow of corruption, to find a will twisted by the curse beyond the palace walls, and shuddered when he found them green and clear.

Whatever Col was doing, he was doing it by choice.

Somewhere beyond the doors, a shout went up, the words smothered, lost.

“For what it’s worth,” said the Veskan prince, raising his blade. “I really only came for the queen.”

His mother spread her arms, the air around her fingers shimmering with frost. “Rhy,” she said, her voice a plume of mist. “Run.”

Before the word was fully out, Col was surging forward.

The Veskan was fast, but Rhy was faster, or so it seemed as the queen’s magic weighted Col’s limbs. The icy air wasn’t enough to stop the attack, but it slowed Col long enough for Rhy to throw himself in front of his mother, the blade meant for her driving instead into his chest.

Rhy gasped at the savage pain of steel piercing skin, and for an instant he was back in his rooms, a dagger thrust between his ribs and blood pouring between his hands, the horrible sear of torn flesh quickly giving way to numbing cold. But this pain was real, was hot, was giving way to nothing.

He could feel every terrible inch of metal from the entry wound just beneath his sternum to the exit wound below his shoulder. He coughed, spitting blood onto the glass floor, and his legs threatened to fold beneath him, but he managed to stay on his feet.

His body screamed, his mind screamed, but his heart kept beating stubbornly, defiantly, around the other prince’s blade.

Rhy drew in a ragged breath, and raised his head.

“How … dare you,” he growled, mouth filling with the copper taste of blood.

The victory on Col’s face turned to shock. “Not possible,” he stammered, and then, in horror, “What are you?”

“I am—Rhy Maresh,” he answered. “Son to Maxim and Emira—brother to Kell—heir to this city—and the future king of Arnes.”

Col’s hands fell from the weapon. “But you should be dead.”

“I know,” said Rhy, dragging his own blade from its sheath and driving the steel into Col’s chest.

It was a mirror wound, but there was no spell to shield the Veskan prince. No magic to save him. No life to bind his own. The blade sank in. Rhy expected to feel guilt—or anger, or even triumph—as the blond boy collapsed, lifeless, but all he felt was relief.

Rhy dragged in another breath and wrapped his hands around the hilt of the sword still embedded in his chest. It came free, its length stained red.

He let it fall to the floor.

Only then did he hear the small gasp—a soundless cry—and feel his mother’s cold fingers tightening on his arm. He turned toward her. Saw the red stain spreading across the front of her dress where the sword had driven in. Through him. Through her. There, just above her heart. The too-small hole of a too-great wound. His mother’s eyes met his.

“Rhy,” she said, a small, disconcerted crease between her brows, the same face she’d made a hundred times whenever he and Kell got into trouble, whenever he shouted or bit his nails or did anything that wasn’t princely.

The furrow deepened, even as her eyes went glassy, one hand drifting toward the wound, and then she was falling. He caught her, stumbled as the sudden weight tore against his open, ruined chest.

“No, no, no,” he said, sinking with her to the prismed floor. No, it wasn’t fair. For once, he’d been fast enough. For once, he’d been strong enough. For once—

“Rhy,” she said again, so gently—too gently.

“No.”

Her bloody hands reached for his face, tried to cup his cheek, and missed, streaking red along his jaw.

“Rhy …”

His tears spilled over her fingers.

“No.”

Her hand fell away, and her body slumped against him, still, and in that sudden stillness, Rhy’s world narrowed to the spreading stain, the lingering furrow between his mother’s eyes.

Only then did the pain come, folding over him with such sudden force, such horrible weight, that he clutched his chest and began to scream.

IV

Alucard stood at the ship’s wheel, attention flicking between the three magicians on deck and the line of the sea. The Ghost felt wrong under his hands, too light, too long, a shoe made for someone else’s foot. What he wouldn’t have given for the steady bulk of the Spire. For Stross, and Tav, and Lenos—each name a shard of wood under his skin. And for Rhy—that name an even deeper wound.