I descend down the stairs and touch my country’s soil for the first time since I left. It’s the first time I’ve ever set foot in my homeland without my father.

People holding cameras rush at me. I already knew this would happen. The woman locking lips with the king two nights ago is now covered in dried blood; this is as sensational as it gets.

My eyes find the representatives. They’re all here, along with Will. They’ve decided to temporarily lift their safety precautions and leave the bunker all to welcome my father and me back.

I breathe heavily through my nose and walk to them, ignoring the WUN soldiers holding the crowd at bay and the ancient-looking cameras that follow my every movement.

I’m not a part of this moment; I’m seeing this all through a long, dark tunnel. The representatives’ stoic expressions, the horrified screams of the crowd, which are now mixing with the increasing cheers by those who thirst for enemy blood.

Will looks shell-shocked. I can’t get over how strange the sight is when he’s usually so unruffled.

The general pushes his way to me. “What happened?” His brows are furrowed, and his nostrils flare. He can smell the death on me.

I lean in to him. “I’m only going to retell the story once,” I say. “If you want this to go down in WUN history, you’re going to have to give me a microphone and make a show of it.”

He looks me over, his face grim, and he nods to the side. “We already have a makeshift stage ready.” I glance to where he indicates. Sure enough, there’s a small podium set up, probably meant for my father. But now it’s there for me.

“Are you sure you want to record this?” the general asks. “It could be used against you once the war is over.”

“I will be killed for my crimes, regardless,” I say. This is the sick truth I’ve known since I could think properly on the flight over. There’s no other alternative for what I’ve done.

The general stares at me for a long moment; I can see the morbid curiosity behind his eyes. “This footage is not going to appear to the public until we’ve okay-ed it—if we okay it,” the general says.

“I understand.” I approach the stage with the general at my side. Will appears on my other side, hovering but not touching me. I can see his concern etched into his crinkled brow. Underneath it I see fear, but I can’t tell if it’s fear for me or fear of me.

When the crowd sees what I’m doing, they creep closer to the stage.

I stop when I reach the podium. The microphone—probably one of the few still in existence on this side of the world—is angled for someone much taller than me—my father. That’s why the king’s men shot him in the head—because he was that much taller than everyone else.

I try to blink away the memory of my father cradled in my arms, but when I look down, I see his blood—now dried—still discoloring the skin of my forearms.

The crowd is staring; everyone’s waiting for me. Time to get this over with.

I take the microphone from where it rests. “Over a dozen men and women of the WUN left for Geneva—only four of us have returned.” I pause to collect myself. “This blood,” I hold out my arm, “is the blood of my father, who was shot before my eyes because he would not agree to the king’s peace treaty. We know this is how the king deals with dissension.

“This is also the blood of our fallen soldiers, who died trying to help me escape.” I pace the stage. “And it is the blood of my enemies, whom I killed when they tried to capture me.”

The crowd roars. Without meaning to, I’ve worked them up into some kind of frenzy.

Fatigue sets in. I haven’t eaten or slept since we fled. “I want peace, and I was willing to pay the highest price—my own freedom.” The crowd quiets. “If you watched the negotiations, then you saw me with the king. You saw me kiss the king. You saw a traitorous woman doing what traitorous women always do, right?” There are uncomfortable murmurs in the crowd.

“Wrong,” I say. “The king has killed every one of my family members. He’s taken my friends and family from me. I hate him with every fiber of my being.

“The king wanted me—so much so that he changed his peace treaty on my behalf. He thought he’d keep me in Geneva with him. And when my father refused to let that happen …” I close my eyes and breathe slowly, “the king had him killed.”

There’s angry murmuring. People are confused, and I don’t have it in me to clarify the situation more. In fact, I don’t have much of anything left in me, period.

I place the mike back where I found it and walk off the stage. There. I’ve done it. Said what I needed to say. And now I can quietly fall apart.

The rest of the day blurs. Will is beside me for most of it, except while I bathe. I’m actually afforded a real bath, not just a basin of water and a washcloth like usual. It has nothing on the king’s showers, and it’s still not enough to wash off all the blood, but it is familiar. And familiar is what I need at the moment.

Since I returned to the bunker, the representatives—minus me and Will—have been locked inside that room of theirs, no doubt trying to figure out what to make of this mess.

Once I finish bathing, I return to my room. Will’s already there, waiting for me. I walk right into his arms and allow myself this closeness. I rub my face into the rough material that covers his chest, enjoying the feel of a body.