All argument seems to die with Mother’s voice. Like Father, she sits back, satisfied. For once, she is without her familiar hiss of snakes. Just the great panther, purring under her touch.

Father forges on, eager to land the killing strike. “Our objective is Maven. The Lakelands. Cleaving the king from his new ally will leave him vulnerable, mortally so. Will you support us in our quest to rid this poison from our country?”

Slowly, Salin and Jerald exchange glances, their eyes meeting across the empty space between them. Adrenaline surges in my veins. They will kneel. They must kneel.

“Will you support House Samos, House Laris, House Lerolan—”

A voice cuts him off. The voice of a woman. It echoes—from nowhere. “You presume to speak for me?”

Jerald twists his wrist, his fingers moving in a rapid circle. Everyone in the chamber gasps, including me, when a third ambassador blinks into existence between Iral and Haven. Her house appears behind her, a dozen of them in clothes of red and orange, like the setting sun. Like an explosion.

Mother jolts beside me, surprised for the first time in many, many years. My adrenaline becomes spikes of ice, chilling my blood.

The leader of House Lerolan takes a daring step forward. Her appearance is severe. Gray hair tied into a neat bun, her eyes burning like heated bronze. The older woman does not know the name of fear. “I will not support a Samos king while a Calore heir lives.”

“I knew I smelled smoke,” Mother mutters, pulling her hand back from the panther. It immediately tenses, shifting to stand as its claws slide into place.

She just shrugs, smirking. “Easy to say, Larentia, now that you see me standing here.” Her fingers drum at her side. I watch them closely. She is an oblivion, able to explode things with a touch. If she got close enough, she could obliterate my heart in my chest or my brain in my skull.

“I am a queen—”

“So am I.” Anabel Lerolan grins wider. Though her clothes are fine, she wears no jewelry that I can see, no crown. No metal. My fist claws at my side. “We will not turn our backs on my grandson. The throne of Norta belongs to Tiberias the Seventh. Ours is a crown of flames, not steel.”

Father’s anger gathers like thunder and breaks like lightning. He stands from his throne, one fist clenching. The metal reinforcements of the chamber itself twist, groaning under the strain of his fury.

“We had a deal, Anabel!” he snarls. “The Barrow girl for your support.”

She just blinks.

Even from the far side, I can hear my brother hiss. “Have you forgotten the reason the Guard has Corvium? Did you not see your grandson fighting his own in Archeon? How can the kingdom stand behind him now?”

Anabel doesn’t flinch. Her lined face remains still, her expression open and patient. A kindly old woman in everything but the waves of ferocity emanating from her. She waits for my brother to push on, but he doesn’t, and she inclines her head. “Thank you, Prince Ptolemus, for at least not furthering the outrageous falsity of my son’s murder and my grandson’s exile. Both committed at the hands of Elara Merandus, both spread through the kingdom in the worst propaganda I have ever seen. Yes, Tiberias has done terrible things to survive. But they were to survive. After every one of us turned on him, abandoned him, after his own poisoned brother tried to kill him in the arena like a base criminal. A crown is the least we can give him in apology.”

Behind her, Iral and Haven stand firm. A curtain of tension falls over the hall. Everyone feels it. We’re Silvers, born to strength and power. All of us train to fight, to kill. We hear the tick of a clock in every heart, counting down to bloodshed. I glance at Elane, lock eyes with her. She presses her lips into a grim line.

“The Rift is mine,” Father growls, sounding like one of Mother’s beasts. The noise shudders in my bones, and I am instantly a child.

It has no such effect on the old queen. Anabel just tips her head to the side. Sunlight glints down the straight, iron strands of her hair gathered at the nape of her neck.

“Then keep it,” she replies with a shrug. “As you said, we had a deal.”

And just like that, the coiling turmoil threatening to engulf the room sweeps away. A few of the cousins, as well as Lord Jerald, visibly exhale.

Anabel spreads her hands wide, an open gesture. “You are the king of the Rift, and may you reign for many prosperous years. But my grandson is the rightful king of Norta. And he will need every ally we can muster to take his kingdom back.”

Even Father did not foresee this turn. Anabel Lerolan has not been to court in many years, electing to remain in Delphie, her house’s seat. She despised Elara Merandus and could not be near her—that, or she feared her. I suppose now, with the whisper queen gone, the oblivion queen can return. And return she has.

I tell myself not to panic. Blindsided as Father may be, this is not surrender. We keep the Rift. We keep our home. We keep our crowns. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m loath to give away what we’ve planned for. What I deserve.

“I wonder how you intend to restore a king who wants no part in a throne,” Father muses. He steeples his fingers and surveys Anabel over them. “Your grandson is in Piedmont—”

“My grandson is an unwilling operative of the Scarlet Guard, which in turn is controlled by the Free Republic of Montfort. You’ll find that their leader, the one calling himself premier, is quite a reasonable man,” she adds with the air of someone discussing the weather.