Nina was less sure of what she sensed from Prince Rasmus. He kept glancing at her, and his expression was one she could almost believe was true concern. She couldn’t stop herself from studying his profile, the color of his eyes—were the differences she thought she saw there real or imagined? She felt like she was coming undone.

They docked at one of the piers, and the prince strode toward the command center with Joran beside him. “Come along,” he said to Nina.

“I would have a word, Your Highness,” said Brum, his anger barely leashed.

“Then you may come along too.”

The command center was much like the rest of the structures on Leviathan—all military utility, stocked with maps and equipment. Crates of gear had been stacked in neat aisles, maps and tide charts were hung on the tent’s canvas siding, though the rest of the walls had been left open.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a rest, Your Highness?” Brum asked, seeking to draw attention to the prince’s frailty.

“I think not. I feel quite well.”

“Of course, you were not on the field today.”

“No, I wasn’t. I have not had my share of riding or fresh air or battle in this life. I know you think me the lesser because of it.”

“I never said—”

“You’ve said enough. You’ve called me weakling and whelp.”

Brum sputtered. “I never did. I—”

“Think,” the prince said gently, and again Nina found herself leaning forward, wondering. His voice sounded rough, different. As if the vocal cords had been hastily altered. “Remember that the men you once called loyal no longer wish to serve you. Your friend Redvin was found dead in the ruined eastern tower. Your drüskelle are in shambles. Is this the time you want your honesty called into question?”

Brum did not give any ground. “I have served Fjerda with honor.”

“You have served Fjerda long enough.”

Brum laughed. “I see. You think the Ravkans will keep to this peace, Your Highness?”

“I do,” said Prince Rasmus. “And even if I didn’t, it is no longer a matter that concerns you.”

“Your health—”

“My health has never been better.”

Nina hesitated, then said, “All this talk of poison today.”

A hush fell.

“Yes,” said Rasmus slowly. “A curious thing. I’ve been guarded by drüskelle since I was a child.”

Now Brum looked genuinely frightened. As far as Nina knew, he had never resorted to poison. He’d thought the prince’s poor health would do the work for him. But could he prove that?

“If you have evidence of such rank treason,” Brum said, “I demand it be presented. I will not have my honor besmirched.”

“I know this has been a day of tragedy for you,” the prince said. “Of terrible loss. You need a time of rest and quiet contemplation. Perhaps on Kenst Hjerte.”

“That is exile,” Brum said, his voice low and determined. “You cannot mean to—”

“‘Cannot’ is a word unfamiliar to princes.”

“Your Highness,” Brum tried, making his voice warm, appealing. “This is a misunderstanding and nothing more.”

The prince gestured to his guards. “Take him to his cabin and keep him under guard. But be kind to him. He is … he is what this country made him.”

Before the guards could take hold of Brum, he had a gun in his hands, pointed at the crown prince.

“No!” Nina cried.

“Strymacht Fjerda!” Brum shouted.

Gunshots—one, two, three, whipcrack loud.

Brum never had a chance to fire. He was on the ground, bleeding. Joran reholstered his weapon. He’d shot Brum three times—once in the leg, twice in the arm.

The prince moved forward, but Nina seized him by the elbow. “Don’t. He’ll be all right.”

Rasmus’ eyes met hers, not quite the blue they had been. “Get a medic!” he called, holding her gaze. “This poor man needs help.”

Medics and soldiers rushed forward. “We should let him die,” said one, spitting on the ground by Brum’s body. “He tried to kill you, Your Highness.”

“I have no doubt he meant to turn the gun on himself. He lost his only daughter today.” Rasmus paused. “Mila, you knew her well. You were Hanne’s dearest friend, were you not?”

“I loved her,” said Nina, stubborn, terrible hope clawing at her heart. “I love her still.”

* * *

Brum was taken to the infirmary to have his gunshot wounds treated. He would recover in time, though he would have healed faster with the help of a Grisha. Ylva insisted on remaining with him. Nina wanted to comfort her, but she scarcely knew the words to say.

They boarded the royal airship in silence. Already there was talk of Prince Rasmus meeting with his parents to discuss the treaty, of whether the peace would hold, but all Nina wanted was a chance to speak to him alone.

They entered the royal cabin, a sleek pod of golden wood and plush white silk. Through the windows, Nina could see the setting sun painting the clouds in golden light, pale rose, faint blue at the edges.

“Leave us, Joran,” the prince said.

Joran paused at the door, meeting first the prince’s gaze, then Nina’s. “Whatever you require, Your Highness. You need only ask.” He said the words as if speaking a vow. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”

He bowed and departed, closing the door behind him. There were no witnesses now, only the clouds and the sky beyond.

The honeyed light caught on the prince’s features. He was watching her with an expression she’d never seen on his haughty royal face before. She saw fear there, and her own hope reflected back to her.

“Where did we meet?” she whispered.

“In a clearing by a poison stream,” the crown prince replied in that soft, husky voice. “I rode a white horse, and for a moment, you believed I was a soldier.”

Before Nina’s mind could protest, her feet were carrying her across the room. She threw her arms around him.

“Never let me go,” Hanne whispered against her hair, holding her tight.

“Never again.” She drew back. “But … the prince?”