“We can remove them from court, if you want,” I murmur slowly. I school my features into something softer, more caring, as I shift closer to him. I angle my body so my collarbone juts out, and my dress slips just so, showing exactly as much skin as I need. “Blame it on me. My Lakeland superstitions. Call it a short-lived measure to please your new wife.”

It’s like circling a whirlpool, trying to keep to its edges. To stay within its bounds without drowning.

The corner of his mouth lifts, tugging his lips. He cuts a sharp profile, all edges of straight nose, proud brow, and sculpted cheekbones. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you, Iris?”

I blink at him, confused. “And?”

Grinning, he moves faster than I expect, putting one hand to my face. I flinch as his fingers slide behind my ear, his thumb beneath my chin. The latter digs a little, pressing into the flesh of my throat. His skin flares, hot but not burning. We’re almost the same height, but he has an inch or so over me, and I’m forced to look up into eyes like a tundra sky. Frozen, unforgiving, endless. To anyone watching, we might look like enamored newlyweds.

“You’re very good at this already,” he says, his oddly cool breath washing over my face. “But so am I.”

I step back, meaning to pull from his grip, but he releases me before I force any kind of struggle. He seems amused, which makes my stomach churn. I give no indication of my disgust. Only cold indifference. I raise an eyebrow and smooth my hair over one shoulder, gleaming black and oil-smooth. I try to channel my mother’s regal, fearless nature.

“Touch me without my consent again, and we’ll see how long you can hold your breath.”

Slowly, he lifts the flower again, and his fist tightens around it. One by one, the petals fall, and he flicks his wrist, sparking his bracelet. The petals burn before they hit the ground, disappearing in a burst of red flame and ash and open threat.

“Forgive me, my queen,” he says, smiling. Lying. “The stress of this war can be such a ruin on my nerves. I only hope my brother can be made to see reason, and the traitors with him are brought to justice so we might finally have some peace in our lands.”

“Of course.” My words are just as false as his. I dip my head, ignoring any shame I feel in the action. “Peace is the goal we all share.”

After my mother feasts on your country and tosses your throne into the ocean. After we bleed the Samos king dry and kill every person responsible for my father’s death.

After we take your crown, Maven Calore, and drown you and your brother both.

“Your Majesty?”

We both turn to find one of Maven’s Sentinels, his mask black and glittering, standing in the doorway to the balcony. He bows low, his robes a swirl of woven fire. I can’t imagine how sweltering their armor and robes must be right now.

Maven gestures, hands open. His voice is a bucket of ice water. “What is it?”

“We’ve located what you asked for.” I can only see the Sentinel’s eyes beneath his mask, and they flash with fear.

“Are you sure?” The king picks at his nails again, feigning disinterest. This only piques mine.

The Sentinel bobs his head. “Yes, sir.”

With a cutting smile, Maven looks up from his hands and turns, putting his back to the railing. “Well, then, my thanks. I’d like to see it.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sentinel says again, nodding once more.

“Iris, care to join me?” Maven asks, one hand outstretched. His fingers hover half an inch from my arm, taunting me.

Every warrior instinct I have tells me to refuse. But then I openly admit I am afraid of Maven Calore, and give him power over me. This I cannot allow. And whatever he’s looking for on the Piedmont base could be important to the Lakelands. A weapon, perhaps. Intelligence, maybe. “Why not?” I say with an exaggerated shrug.

I ignore his hand, following the Sentinel off the balcony. My dress snaps behind me, cut low to show the whorls of water tattooed across my back.

The base is a good size, though half as big as the major citadels where we house our fleets and armies back in the Lakelands. Wherever we’re going must be close enough to walk, as Maven’s contingent of Sentinels doesn’t bring a transport. I wish they would. Despite the many trees dotting the streets of the base, the shady areas aren’t much cooler than the sunlit streets. As we walk, flanked by a dozen Sentinel guards, I run a hand along my neck. Droplets of water form in the wake of my fingertips, each one running a soothing race down my inked spine.

Maven follows close at the heels of his lead Sentinel, hands fisted in his pockets. He’s eager. He wants whatever we’re about to find.

They turn us onto a street of row houses. At first it seems oddly cheerful. Red brick and black shutters, paved sidewalks, flowers blooming, and columns of pruned trees. But the emptiness is unsettling, like a city block removed of its inhabitants. A dollhouse without dolls. The people who lived here were either killed or captured, or they fled into the stinking, sinking swamps. Perhaps they left something of value behind.

“These were officer homes,” one of the Sentinels explains. “Before the occupation.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “And after?”

“Used by the enemy. Red rats, blood traitors, newblood freaks,” one of the Sentinels hisses behind his mask.

Maven stops so quickly his leather boots leave black scuff marks on the sidewalk. He turns to the hissing guard, hands still concealed. Despite the Sentinel’s towering height, Maven doesn’t seem at all perturbed. In fact, he wears no expression at all as he stares.

“What was that, Sentinel Rhambos?”

Strongarm. The Sentinel could tear Maven’s arms off if he wanted. Instead his eyes widen behind his mask, a watery brown full of terror.

“Nothing of importance, Your Majesty.”

“I decide what is important,” Maven clips. “What did you say?”

“I answered Her Majesty, the queen.” His eyes shift to me. Begging for some kind of protection, but I have none to give. The Sentinels are Maven’s to command. “I told her Reds lived here during the Montfort occupation. And Silvers. And newbloods.”

“Rats. Traitors. Freaks,” Maven offers, still without any inflection or emotion. I almost wish he would explode with rage. This is far more frightening. A king who cannot be read, a king without anything in him. “Those were your exact words, weren’t they?”

“They were, Your Majesty.”

With a crack of his neck, Maven looks at another guard. “Sentinel Osanos, can you explain why this was a mistake?”

The blue-eyed nymph sputters at my side, stunned to be called upon. She tries to gather herself as quickly as possible. And answer correctly. “Because . . .” She trails off, her fingers twitching in her robes. “I can’t say, sir.”

“Hmm.” His hum is low, guttural, vibrating in the damp air. “No one?”

I truly despise him.

I click my tongue. “Because Sentinel Rhambos insulted Mare Barrow in your presence.”

I suddenly regret wishing Maven would show anger instead of emptiness. His eyes go black, the pupils blowing out in fury. His mouth opens a little, showing teeth, though I expect fangs. The Sentinels around us tense, and I wonder if they would try to stop him if he moved to strike me. I don’t think they would. I’m their charge as well, but he comes first. He will always come first in this marriage.

“My wife has such an imagination,” he sneers, though I’ve struck upon the truth. An ugly one. I knew he was obsessed with her, in love with her in some corrupt and vile way, but his reaction hints at something deeper. An internal flaw of someone else’s making. His mother did this to him, for a reason I can’t fathom. Speared the pain and agony and torture of loving Mare through his heart and brain.

In spite of my better instincts, I feel the smallest pang of pity for Maven Calore. He is not of his own making. Not entirely. Someone else perfectly cut him apart and poorly put him back together.

His anger passes like the storm clouds, leaving the threat of trembling thunder in its wake. The Sentinels relax when it does. Maven rolls his shoulders and smooths a hand through his hair.