Lakelanders. Frozen fools. All stern in their hideous blue. To think Maven traded the might of House Samos for them. “I hope you repaid the favor.”

“He no longer has a head.”

“That’ll do.”

“There,” Wren says, finishing up the wrist. She runs her hands along his arm and down his spine to the small of his back. “I’ll stimulate your marrow and kidneys, raise your blood production as much as I can. You’ll still be weak, though.”

“That’s fine. As long as I can walk.” He already sounds stronger. “Help me up, Evie.”

I oblige, bracing his good arm over my shoulder. He’s heavy, almost deadweight. “Ease up on the desserts,” I grumble. “Come on now, move with me.”

Tolly does what he can, forcing one foot after the other. Nowhere near fast enough for my taste. “Very well,” I mutter, reaching out to his discarded armor. It flattens and re-forms into a sheet of rippled steel. “Sorry, Tolly.”

I push him down onto it, using my ability to hold up the sheet like a stretcher.

“I can walk . . . ,” he protests, but weakly. “You need your focus.”

“Then focus for both of us,” I shoot back. “Men are useless when injured, aren’t they?”

Keeping him elevated takes a corner of my ability, but not all of it. I sprint as fast as I can, one hand on the sheet. It follows on an invisible tether, flanked by Wren on the other side.

Metal sings on the edge of my perception. I note each piece as we press on, filing them away on instinct. Copper wiring—a garrote with which to strangle. Door locks and hinges—darts or bullets. Window frames—iron hilts with glass daggers. Father used to quiz me on such things, until it became second nature. Until I couldn’t enter a room without marking its weapons. House Samos is never caught off guard.

Father devised our swift getaway from Archeon. Through the barracks and down the northern cliffs to boats waiting in the river. Steel boats, specially made, fluted for speed and silence. Between Father and me, they’ll cut through the water like needles through flesh.

We’re behind schedule, but only by a few minutes. In the chaos, it will take hours before anyone in Maven’s court realizes House Samos has disappeared. I don’t doubt other houses will take the same opportunity, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Maven is not the only person with an escape plan. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if every house has one of its own. The court is a powder keg with an increasingly short fuse and a spitfire king. You’d have to be an idiot not to expect an explosion.

Father felt the winds shift the moment Maven stopped listening to him, as soon as it became clear that allying to the Calore king would be our downfall. Without Elara, no one could hold Maven’s leash. Not even my father. And then the Scarlet Guard rabble became more organized, a real threat rather than an inconvenience. They seemed to grow with each passing day. Operating in Piedmont and the Lakelands, whispers of an alliance with Montfort far to the west. They’re much larger than anyone anticipated, better organized and more determined than any insurrection in memory. All the while, my wretched betrothed lost his grip. On the throne, on his sanity, on anything but Mare Barrow.

He tried to let her go, or so Elane told me. Maven knew as well as any of us what a danger his obsession would become. Kill her. Be done. Be rid of her poison, he used to mutter. Elane listened undetected, quiet in her corner of his private quarters. The words were only words. He could never part with her. So it was easy to push her into his path—and push him off course. The equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. She was his hurricane, and every nudge pulled him deeper into the eye of the storm. I thought she was an easy tool to use. A distracted king makes for a more powerful queen.

But Maven shut me out of a place that was rightfully mine. He didn’t know to look for Elane. My lovely, invisible shadow. Her reports came later, under the cover of night. They were very thorough. I feel them still, whispered against my skin with only the moon to listen. Elane Haven is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in any capacity, but she looks best in moonlight.

After Queenstrial, I promised her a consort’s crown. But that dream disappeared with Prince Tiberias, as most dreams do with the harsh break of day. Whore. That’s what Maven called her after the attempt on his life. I almost killed him where he stood.

I shake my head, refocusing on the task at hand. Elane can wait. Elane is waiting, just as my parents promised. Safe in our home, tucked away in the Rift.

The back courtyards of Archeon open onto flourishing gardens, which in turn are bounded by the palace walls. A few wrought-iron fences ward the flowers and shrubbery. Good for spears. The wall and garden patrols used to be guards of many different house—Laris windweavers, silks of Iral, vigilant Eagrie eyes—but things have changed in recent months. Laris and Iral stand in opposition to Maven’s rule, alongside House Haven. And with a battle raging, the king himself in danger, the other palace guards are scattered. I look up through the greenery, magnolia and cherry blossoms bright against the dark sky. Figures in black prowl the diamondglass ramparts.

Only House Samos remains to man the wall.

“Cousins of iron!”

They snap toward my voice, responding in kind.

“Cousins of steel!”

Sweat trickles down my neck as the wall looms closer. From fear, from exertion. Only a few more yards. In preparation, I thicken the pearly metal of my boots, hardening my last steps.