“Your mistake, Sentinel Rhambos, lies in your disdain,” he says, his voice returning to the dismissive, boyish tone he uses to ensnare people. Stepping lightly, he gets us moving again, though I think the Sentinels are keeping a distance. “We are at war, yes, and these people are our enemies. But they’re still people. Many of them my rightful subjects and your own countrymen. When we claim our victory, we will welcome them back into the Kingdom of Norta. With some exceptions, of course,” he adds with a conspiratorial smirk.

The lie comes so easily and so well I shiver in the heat.

“Here, sir,” one of the guards finally says, indicating a row house that looks identical to the others at first glance. But upon closer inspection, I realize the flowers are better tended to. Vibrant, lush petals and verdant green leaves burst from the window boxes.

Maven glares up at the windows, as if inspecting a corpse. He mounts the steps to the door, moving slowly. “And what freak lived here?” he finally says.

At first the Sentinels do not answer. Fearing the trap for what it is.

Only Osanos is brave enough to speak. She clears her throat, then responds.

“Mare Barrow.”

Maven nods, still for a second. Then he raises a foot, slamming his boot next to the doorknob, kicking the lock and the door open with a shatter of wood. His form recedes like a fading shadow as he enters the house.

I remain on the pavement for a moment. Stay here. The Sentinels hesitate with me, reluctant to follow their king. Though I would personally love nothing more than an assassin to jump out of a closet and cut Maven’s throat, I know how that would destroy any chance of winning this war and keeping the Lakelands safe from the other brother and his pets in the Rift.

“Keep up,” I growl, ascending the steps after my foul husband. The Sentinels clatter after me, their armor clinking beneath their robes of flame.

I focus on the sound of them as we enter the dim house, empty and silent without its occupants. The walls are oddly bare; Bracken did say his base, and many of his own treasures, were stripped of valuables. Sold off for resources. I wince at the thought of my own home facing such vultures. Our shrines and temples desecrated to fund a war. Not while I live and breathe. Not while Mother holds her throne.

I don’t bother entering the small salon or searching out the kitchen. Maven’s footsteps echo on the stairs, and I follow, pulling the Sentinels along with me. If the king wants to be alone, he doesn’t say so.

He bangs open each door on the second floor in turn, poking his head into various bedrooms, closets, and a bathroom. Once or twice, he snarls under his breath, like a predator denied prey.

At the final door, in the corner, he pauses, hesitating.

This door he opens with one hand, gently, as if entering a holy place.

I hang back a moment, letting him go first.

Inside is a bedroom, with two small beds flanking a single window. I notice the oddity first. The patterned curtains are cut up, with precise chunks removed.

“The sister,” Maven murmurs, running his hand along a sliced edge. “The seamstress.”

As he runs the fabric through his fingers, sparks spit from his wrist. They catch and spread, eating through the curtains with speed and skill. Burning holes spread like disease. Acrid smoke stings my nostrils.

He does the same to the wallpaper, letting it burn and peel beneath his touch. Then the window, laying a flaming hand to the glass. It cracks under the tremendous heat he throws off, shattering outward into the sunlight. The room seems to pulse and boil, like the inside of a bubbling pot. I want to step away, but I want to see him. Maven. I must know who he is if I am to defeat him.

The first bed he ignores, somehow knowing it wasn’t hers.

The second he sinks into, as if testing the firmness. He smooths the coverlet beneath his hands, then the pillow. Feeling where her head used to rest. I almost expect him to lie down and breathe in whatever scent might linger.

Instead his fire consumes. Feather and fabric. Wood frame. It leaps across to the other bed, gobbling it up.

“Give me a minute, please,” he whispers, almost inaudible over the roar of controlled flame.

We do as we are told, fleeing before the shining heat.

A minute is all he needs. We’re barely back on the street before he emerges from the door, an inferno jumping to life behind him.

I realize I’m sweating with fear as we walk away and the row house crumbles.

What will Maven burn next?

The snarl of transports echoes outside the holding bunker. The soldiers must have returned, and I wonder if they managed to track down anyone in the swamps. The noise filters through the high windows cut into the concrete slab walls. This room is cool, partially underground, bisected by a long aisle dividing two rows of barred cells. By the official count, we have forty-seven captured held here, two or three to a cell. All red-blooded, but still under heavy Silver guard. Some could be newbloods, quietly waiting for a chance to use their abilities and escape. The Silvers of Montfort—the blood traitors, as the Sentinel called them—are being held elsewhere, restrained by silents and the most powerful of guards.

Maven idly knocks his knuckles against each bar as we pass. The prisoners shrink back or stand firm, afraid or defiant in the face of the king of Norta. Strange, he seems relaxed here, surrounded by cells. He barely seems to notice the prisoners at all.

I do the opposite. I count as we go, to see if they match the official tally. To look for any flash of rebellion or determination that might spark into something inconvenient. I wish I could separate Red from newblood. Every cell I pass makes me uneasy, knowing a snake could be waiting in each one.

At the far end of the bunker, another contingent of royal Silvers approaches, their colors yellow, white, and purple, all done up in gold armor and weapons better suited to decorating a banquet hall. Prince Bracken smiles broadly, but the children clutching his hands cower. Michael and Charlotta alternate between burying their faces in their father’s purple-spangled robes and looking at their golden-shod feet.

While I feel a surge of sorrow for the children and what they endured at the hands of the Montfort monsters, I am also grateful to see that they are well enough to accompany their father. When we slipped out of the mountain kingdom with them, they could barely speak, despite the wretched healer’s fine work. For no skin healer can mend a mind.

If only they could, I think to myself, glancing sidelong at my husband.

“Prince Bracken,” Maven says, dipping his head with all the charm he can muster. Then he sinks further, to eye level with the approaching children. “And Michael, Charlotta. The bravest pair of siblings I ever saw.”

Michael hides his face again, but Charlotta offers the smallest of smiles. The polite kind, hammered into her by some etiquette instructor, no doubt.

“Very brave indeed,” I add, winking at the pair of them.

Bracken stops before us, still smiling, and his guards and retainers glide to a halt with him. I spot another Piedmont prince in their midst, marked by a crown of emeralds, but I can’t say which one.

“Your Majesties,” Bracken offers, sweeping out his hands to bow as low as he can. His children, still holding his fingers, do the same with practiced grace. Even shy, shivering little Michael. “There are neither enough words nor enough gold in the world to express my gratitude, but rest assured, you have it.” The prince’s eyes stray to me and I meet his gaze, raising my chin. I saved his children with my own two hands. That will not be forgotten. “Just as you have use of my military installation, and any resources Piedmont can offer in this war against the very nature of our world.”

With a flick of his fingers, Maven gestures for Bracken to stand.

“You have my gratitude as well for such a mighty pledge,” Maven replies, all performance and posture. “Together we can end what my brother began.”

Something flashes in Bracken’s eye. Amusement, maybe. Does he see the lie for what it is? Tiberias Calore did not start this war, not by any stretch of the imagination. That sin lies with the Red rebels. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, spurred on by necessary actions my own father took. Still, if they are sinners, we enabled their existence, allowing it to spread. We share in the sin and shame.