The soldier was now glancing up at us as he frantically fiddled with the straps of his parachute. In several more seconds we’d lose the advantage we now had.

Next to me Will shifted his weight, his hands adjusting and readjusting their grip on his weapon. He wasn’t going to finish the enemy in time.

Steadying my breath, I aimed my weapon and fired.

The bullet took the soldier right between the eyes—a quick, painless death. That was as compassionate as I was going to get out here, given the circumstances.

For ten long seconds neither of us moved.

Will finally lowered his gun. “I froze up.” I could hear the embarrassment in his voice.

“Nothing to be ashamed of.”

I pushed down my nausea. By now I’d learned that it wasn’t physical. It was more of a soul-sickness. Another piece of my humanity chipped away.

“You were able to kill him,” Will said.

You, a girl. That’s what he meant. Like owning a vagina made me inferior in some fundamental way.

I gave Will a long look, then shook my head and began walking towards the body. I expected most of the teen boys in my platoon to be sexist, but not Will.

“I’m sorry,” he said to my back.

I waved him off. “You’ll get another chance to kill tonight. I’m sure it’ll help your wounded ego recover.”

Will did in fact kill for the first time that evening. And when he saw the woman’s lifeless eyes, he vomited all over my shoes. The machismo act fell away after that. It didn’t stop either of us from continuing to slaughter enemy soldiers, but by the end of the night, Will was no longer so eager to take lives.

Once upon a time, we were innocent. And then we were not.

The next few days at the king’s estate are strangely quiet. Our time here is almost up. Not much progress has been made between my father and the king as far as negotiations go. My father enters our suite each day weary and beaten down. The WUN is not in a position to make an advantageous agreement, and the king is making that clearer now more than ever.

If we can’t reach an agreement in the next two days, when our flight is scheduled to leave, the king will continue to wage war on us until we’re forced to surrender, and then the WUN will have to agree with whatever demands he asks.

The twisted king hasn’t tried to see me since our brief interaction in his map room, yet our last visit managed to spook me. I can’t tell how much of what he said was true and how much of it was a lie. The king is a tactical mastermind, that much I know. So I can trust that whatever he decides will be solely in his best interest. I’ll get used, and so will the WUN.

And now I have to see him in less than an hour. King Lazuli’s hosting some bigwig dinner, and we’re the guests of honor. It’ll be the first time I’m in front of the cameras again since I was banned from the peace talks.

I carefully apply the makeup I was packed with. I’ve probably spent more time on this trip poking myself in the eye with the eyeliner pen than I have learning the ins and outs of the king’s proposed peace treaty. And I’ve spent hours poring over that thing.

I turn away from the mirror and glance at the far corner of my room where I shoved the king’s gifts. I don’t want to put the gown or the jewelry on; to me it symbolizes all the broken families and defeated nations he’s claimed.

But so close to when we have to leave, my mind is haunted by the possibility that I could do something for the WUN. Tonight.

I retrieve the king’s gifts from the corner. I give the pale yellow dress a dirty look. Somehow the king managed to spoil my favorite color. I remove the towel wrapped around my torso and pull the gown on.

Once I do, I frown. My entire back is exposed. The rest of the dress falls suggestively over my curves. It fits me perfectly.

I grab the diamond necklace that goes along with the dress, and before I can think too much about it, I clasp it around my neck. It feels like a manacle.

I finish applying makeup and arrange my hair so that it lies in loose curls over my shoulders, and then I leave my room. I look nothing like the elegant women I’ve seen here, with their perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, and for that I’m glad. I can still recognize myself in the mirror.

Outside my room, my father speaks animatedly with one of our guards. Gone is the devastated man who considered defying orders for me.

A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.”

“What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him.

“Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning.

“You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.”

My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”

My father and I follow Marcus to the banquet hall, our guards shadowing our procession. Inside, people haven’t yet sat down to eat. Instead they mill about the room, sipping on champagne and chatting with one another.

The room stirs as we enter. You’d think that the king’s stuck-up friends would get used to the sight of us, but they haven’t. Nor have the camera crews. I notice that most of their lenses zoom in on me. I guess their audiences are more interested in my (lack of) involvement in the peace talks than they are of my father’s or the king’s.

My father leans into me. “You need to interact with these people tonight. Talk, be friendly, and try not to scare anyone too much. I’m leaving you to mingle.”