I come up next to him and stare out into the crowd. My smile wavers as I take in the hundreds—no, thousands—of occupied seats. A strong hand takes my own. I look down at the hand then back up at the man who holds it. He is the king of the entire world. He’s a man who can’t die. A man who doesn’t age. He’s a man who’s made my life a living hell since the war began, and he’s the man I’m forced to marry.

“The Western United Nations and the Eastern Empire have come to a peace agreement. The war is over.”

I’ve never heard this many people cheer in such a confined space, but it seems to resonate through my bones. I smile at the sound, and it’s genuine. Peace, at last.

The cheering goes on for a minute, maybe more, before the crowd is quieted and the king resumes his speech. “Now that there is peace between the two hemispheres, we can begin to look forward to the future.”

The king turns his focus on me, and my heart drums faster. “There is no one I’d rather spend it with than the woman standing next to me.” The look in his eyes is genuine; he’s good. He’s almost convinced me.

And then he does something I really wasn’t expecting. He gets down on one knee. My heart is hammering away in my chest, and I’m sure if a camera got close enough, they’d capture the whites of my eyes on film. I’m about to take a step back when I pause.

You need to convince them.

He pulls out a small box and opens it, revealing a ring inside. “Serenity Freeman, will you marry me?” he asks, smiling. His eyes are vulnerable.

In a room full of thousands of people, it’s absolutely silent.

I put a hand to my heart. Beneath my skin I can feel it pound. “Yes,” I whisper. Only my whisper blasts across the sound systems thanks to the mike hooked up to me.

The crowd roars their applause, and the king’s face breaks into a blinding smile, one that brightens his entire face and reaches his eyes. There’s genuine happiness there, and I wonder if I might be the only person in the world that’s not pleased by the situation. I think of Will.

No, I’m not the only one.

Taking my hand, the king removes the ring from its case and slides it onto my finger. It’s a band made up of yellow diamonds. I can’t decide whether it’s the ugliest or prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

The king stands, and without giving me a warning, he cups my face and his lips touch mine. I freeze for a split second, my mind and body conflicted, before I move my lips against his and return the kiss. I can feel a low burn starting at the bottom of my stomach and work its way through my limbs.

I touch a hand to his cheek and stroke the rough skin there. My abs clench. Aching want. Guilt. Divided loyalties.

The crowd continues to cheer, although now some whistles join the noise. It unsettles me that we have an audience—that we’re doing this for an audience.

The kiss ends and the king takes my hand, lifting it into the air. The motion swivels my body so that I’m now facing the audience. I focus on my breathing as I stare out at the crowd.

“May our marriage symbolize the peaceful joining of two hemispheres and the future prosperity of the world,” the king says. His words grate on my nerves. Of course, he’s marrying me because it’s the easiest, most secure way of controlling the entire world and snuffing out potential rebellions. A political alliance based on matrimony. What bothers me more than this realization is that the king’s motives make a difference to me.

The crowd’s cheers seem even louder now than they did before, and I force out what I hope sounds like a giddy laugh as I gaze at the king. His eyes stare back at me with that intensity I’ve come to recognize. And in this moment, I realize my mind is a small thing. Much smaller than the tide we’re being swept along, smaller than the king’s empire, smaller than the number of people who have fought and died to lead us to this moment.

But most of all, it’s smaller than the heart, and that’s the cruelest irony of all.

It’s late by the time we finally return to the king’s palace, and by then I’d shaken hands with hundreds of people, smiled until it felt like my face must’ve broken, and withstood the flash of dozens and dozens of cameras. Tonight I got my first taste of what it will be like as the king’s marionette. It made me want to shoot someone—preferably the king.

King Lazuli met my seething looks and barely contained anger with uncharacteristic patience, which only pissed me off further.

Our shoes click on the marble floor as Montes escorts me back to my room.

“Why are you still making an effort with me?” I ask, breaking the silence between us. “We have always been enemies, and we will always be enemies. Why try to force together puzzle pieces that will never fit?” I ask.

The king’s hands slide into the pockets of his suit, and he bows his head, like he’s actually thinking deeply on my question.

Finally, he speaks. “That first moment I saw you,” Montes says, “I felt a jolt right here,” Montes places a hand over his heart, “and I knew with certainty that you were mine.”

“I’m not a possession, something you repeatedly seem to forget.”

“Your heart is, and I wish to own it—I will own it.”

I give him a curious look. “So confident.”

We walk a few more paces in silence. “What is it that interests you?” Montes asks, glancing at me. “Apart from slaying, that is.”

I ignore the barb and don’t hesitate when I respond. “World affairs.”