“The right way,” I reply. “The way it should be.”

Her smile fades, but not in displeasure. Surprise, maybe. For the first time, her touch is gentle, driven by compassion. Her finger graze my shoulder.

“No more kings, Calore.”

“No more kings,” I echo.

Instead of Farley, the missiles, the ships, the water, the scream of wounded soldiers, I hear my mother’s voice. The voice I think she had.

Cal will not be like the others.

She wanted a certain path for me, just like my father. She wanted me to be different, but she still wanted me to be a king.

I hope my choice would make her proud.

“Speaking of kings,” Farley mutters; her demeanor changes in an instant. She straightens and points at a figure crossing the Square. “Is that—”

His black cape flutters in the fog, snapping back to reveal limbs coated in perfect, mirrored armor. His steps are sure and quick as he moves through the crowd, soldiers jumping out of his way to let him pass. Without breaking pace, he steps onto the crumbling Bridge.

“Volo Samos,” I breathe, gritting my teeth. Whatever he’s about to do won’t end well for us.

But he doesn’t slow, even as the Bridge beneath him becomes more and more precarious. The ships, rising on the forced tide, are almost directly beneath him. And still he doesn’t stop.

Not even at the edge.

Farley gasps when he plummets, his body falling slowly, his cape and armor unmistakable through a gap in the fog.

I turn away, unable to watch him break himself on the steel below.

Across the Square, I spy my grandmother, standing resolute, her battle uniform aglow in red and orange. She stares at me through the fray of soldiers.

At her side, Julian hangs his head.

I don’t think he’s ever killed someone before.

THIRTY-FIVE

Iris

“Another tidal pull and we can off-load directly from the ships,” Mother mutters, stepping out of the ship’s bridge to stand in the open air. Rain pelts down, beading on her exposed face. I follow her closely, as do her guards. She’s armored to the throat, swathed in black and cobalt-blue plate. We won’t take any chances. A stray bullet could catch her at any moment and bring our invasion crashing down around our ears.

“Be patient, Mother,” I murmur, almost glued to her side. “They won’t be able to hold us off for much longer.”

I can’t help but hope. Tiberias Calore crippled his country so perfectly, betraying his own people as well as the Reds. Casting aside any chance he had to keep the throne he won from his wretched brother.

Archeon will fall, and fall soon.

I glance up at the cliffs on either side of the river, both edges wreathed in smoke and mist. Lightning streaks across the sky, oddly colored, and I’m reminded of my own wedding. The freak Reds and blood traitors of the mountains attacked the city that day, albeit with less success than we are having. The waters of the river thrum around us, caressing the hulls of our armada. I feel it keenly, every curve of the waves, as far as my ability can reach.

The broken Archeon Bridge juts out above us, still crumbling. Debris splashes into the river harmlessly. I raise a hand, batting away a particularly large chunk of concrete with a rising swell of water. Another tumbles after it, falling oddly. It flashes, metallic, as it turns, end over end, hurtling right for the deck of the ship.

My fingers brush against the air, raising another wave, but my mother grabs my wrist.

“Let him fall,” she says, her eyes locked on the figure.

I don’t realize it’s a body until it lands on the deck a few yards in front of us, limbs mangled and skull split open like a melon, spewing silver and white across the deck. His mirrored armor shatters like his bones, some of it splintering into dust at the impact. The wrecked corpse is a tall man, older, judging by the remains of a beard beneath his crumpled face. A fold of his black cape splays over the rest of his body. The fabric is edged in silver.

Familiar colors.

Suddenly the battle seems far away, distant as a dream, and the world at the edge of my vision goes hazy. Everything narrows to this man, destroyed in front of us. No crown on his brow. He doesn’t even have a face anymore.

“So ends Volo Samos, and the Kingdom of the Rift,” Mother says, stepping neatly to stand over his broken bones. She toes aside his cape and turns the ruined remains of his skull without flinching.

I glance away, unable to look. My stomach flips queasily. “Queen Anabel’s trade is complete.”

Still examining the corpse, Mother tuts loudly. Her dark eyes run over the dead king, drinking him in. “She thinks this will save her city and her grandson.”

Steeling myself, I force my gaze back to Samos. I’m no stranger to blood. Another corpse shouldn’t frighten me. This man is the reason my father is dead, and our country is without its king, my mother without her husband. He deserves every inch of this ending. And what a brutal ending it was.

“Foolish woman,” I seethe, my thoughts turning to Anabel Lerolan and her weak attempt to stop an invasion. You will not succeed. The price is already paid.

Satisfied, Mother steps back over the body. She gestures with one hand, and two of our guards begin the gruesome process of removing Samos from the deck. Silver blood streaks like paint as they drag him away.

“We’re all fools for the people we love, dear,” Mother says airily, clasping her hands in front of her. Without breaking stride, she glances at one of our lieutenants. “Even concentration on both sides of the city, focused on the massing troops.”

With a nod, the officer ducks back into the command bridge, and her orders are relayed across the armada. Both Lakelander and Piedmontese ships respond in kind, their guns erupting with a volley of fire. Explosions and smoke crackle along the riverbanks, shearing off cliff rock as well as city structures. After a moment, our enemies on both sides return fire, but weakly. Most bullets ping off steel or sink in the water.

Mother watches with a grim smile. “Break their lines and we’ll have an easy way of it, once the river is high enough.” She’s thinking about the thousands of soldiers belowdecks, waiting to spring from our ships and overrun whoever waits above.

A harsh wind blows up, carrying with it the sound of jets screaming far overhead. I grit my teeth. The Nortan Air Fleet is their only measure of superiority, with Piedmont’s fleet diminished and our own sorely lacking in comparison. All we can do is hold them at bay with the storm, using our own meager jets to distract them from the armada. It seems to be working, for now, at least.

As for the Nortan soldiers Tiberias foolishly sent down among us, the deck troops aren’t having a difficult time holding them off. Even with strongarms and swifts leading the charge, the many nymphs of House Osanos use the river to their advantage. Our advantage.

Even now, I can see their numbers dwindling. “Teleporters,” I snarl, watching as the Montfort oddities blink in and out of existence. They snatch away the last of the Nortans, returning them to the relative safety of the city cliffs.

“They’re retreating from the ships.” I turn to Mother, torn between pride and disappointment. The Nortans fear us enough to run. “What’s left of them, at least.”

The queen of the Lakelands raises her chin, looking imperious and regal. “Recalling to make a last stand. Good.”

I’m quickly struck by the image of my mother striding boldly through Caesar’s Square, up the steps of the palace that was once my glorified prison, to sit the throne the Calores have finally lost. Will my mother be an empress when all this is done? Master of all between the lakes and the sea, from the frozen tundra to the radiated borders of the Wash? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Iris. The battle is not yet won.

I try to center myself in the moment. The sharp tang of smoke and Samos’s blood is a good anchor. I inhale sharply, letting the smell overwhelm my senses. It’s funny, I expected this anger inside me to waste away and die with the Samos king. But I still feel it, deep in my chest, gnawing at my heart. My father is dead, and no throne, no crown, can bring him back. No amount of vengeance paid can push away this pain.

I draw another breath, focusing on the waters below us. The envoy of our gods, it carries every blessing and curse. Normally, the sensation would calm me down. Being so close to such power has a way of humbling even me. Right now, I sense no gods that I recognize.