“Every piece of this war is risk,” I hear Ptolemus say from the other side of my father. He flexes as Cal did, drawing himself up to his full height in his throne. The setting sun gives Tolly’s hair a reddish tint, making his oiled silver locks glow beneath his prince’s crown. The same light bathes Cal in his house colors, red in his eyes while black shadows lengthen behind him. The pair hold each other’s gaze in the strange way men do. Everything’s a competition, I scoff to myself.

“Such insight, Prince Ptolemus,” Anabel says, her tone dry. “But His Majesty, the king of Norta, is well aware of what war is. And I agree with his assessment.”

Already she calls him king. I’m not the only one to notice her choice of words.

Cal lowers his eyes, stunned. He recovers quickly, jaw clenched in resolution. His choice is already made. No going back now, Calore.

The Montfort premier, Davidson, nods from his seat at his own table. Without the Scarlet Guard commander and Mare Barrow, he’s easy to ignore. I almost forgot about him entirely.

“I concur,” he says. Even his voice is bland, without inflection or accent. “Our armies need time to recover as well, and this coalition needs time to find . . .” He stops, thinking. I still can’t read his expression, and it annoys me to no end. I wonder if even a whisper could slip past his mental shields. “Balance.”

Mother is not as stoic as my father, and she fixes on the newblood leader with her smoldering black stare. Her snake mimics her action, blinking at the premier. “So is there no intelligence, are there no spies across the border? Forgive me, sir, but I was under the impression that the Scarlet Guard”—she almost spits it out—“had an intricate spy network in both Norta and the Lakelands. Certainly they can be of use, unless the Reds misrepresent themselves and their strength.” Disgust drips from her words like poison from fangs.

“Our operatives are in order, Your Majesty.”

The Red general, the blond woman with the permanent sneer, pushes into the room with Mare on her heels. Both stalk from the doorway at the edge of the chamber, crossing the council room to sit with Davidson. They move quickly and silently, as if they could somehow avoid being watched by the entire room.

While she settles into her chair, Mare keeps her eyes forward, locked on me, of all people. To my surprise, I feel a strange emotion beneath her gaze. Could this be shame? No, not possible. Even so, heat rises in my cheeks. I hope I’m not blushing, either in anger or embarrassment. Both churn inside me, and for good reason. I look away, turning on Cal, if only to distract myself with the one person more wretched than I feel.

He certainly tries to look unaffected by her presence, but Cal isn’t his brother. Unlike Maven, Cal has little skill in masking his emotions. A silver blush blooms beneath his skin, coloring his cheeks, neck, and even the tops of his ears. The temperature in the room rises a little, rippling with whatever emotion he’s fighting. What a fool, I sneer in my head. You made your choice, Calore. You doomed us both. You can at least pretend to keep it together. If anyone is going to lose their mind to heartbreak, it should be me.

I almost expect him to start mewling like a lost kitten. Instead he blinks furiously, ripping his eyes away from the lightning girl. One fist clenches on the arm of his chair, and the flamemaker bracelet on his wrist glows red with the dying sun. He keeps himself in check. It doesn’t ignite, and neither does he.

Mare is a stone compared to Cal. Rigid, unyielding, unfeeling. Not even a spark. She just keeps staring at me. It’s unnerving, but not a challenge. Her eyes are strangely devoid of her usual anger. They certainly aren’t kind, of course, but they aren’t brimming with disgust either. I guess the lightning girl has little reason to hate me right now. My chest tightens—does she know this wasn’t my choice? She must.

“Good of you to return, Miss Barrow,” I tell her, and I mean it. She’s always a guaranteed distraction for Calore princes.

She doesn’t respond, only folding her arms.

Her companion, the Scarlet Guard general, is not so inclined to silence. Unfortunately. She scowls at my mother, tempting fate. “Our operatives are currently in relay, tracking King Maven’s army as they retreat. We’ve received word that his troops are on a hard march to Detraon, moving with speed. Maven himself, and a few of his generals, boarded ships on Lake Eris. Supposedly bound for Detraon as well. There’s talk of a funeral for the Lakelander king. And they have far more healers than we do. Whoever survived the battle will be back to fighting shape quicker than we will.”

Anabel scowls, cutting a glare at Father. “Yes, House Skonos still remains split between our factions, with the majority remaining loyal to the usurper.” As if that’s our fault. We did what we could, convinced who we could. “Not to mention the Lakelands have skin-healer houses of their own.”

With a sweeping hand and a tight smile, Davidson inclines his head. Wrinkles form at the corner of his eyes, marking his age. I suspect he’s forty or so, but it’s difficult to tell for sure.

He touches his fingers to his brow in some kind of strange salute or promise. “Montfort will provide. I plan to petition for more healers, both Silver and Ardent.”

“Petition?” Father sneers. The other Silvers match his confusion, and I find myself glancing down our line to meet Tolly’s eye. He furrows his brow. He doesn’t know what Davidson means. My stomach flops a bit, and I bite my lip against the sensation. Usually whatever one of us lacks, the other provides. But in this, we’re both at sea. And so is Father. Angry as I am with him, this scares me more than anything else. Father can’t protect us from what he doesn’t understand.

Mare doesn’t understand either, wrinkling her nose in confusion. These people, I curse to myself. I wonder if even the scowling, scarred woman knows what Davidson means.

The premier himself gives a small chuckle. The old man is enjoying this. He lowers his eyes, letting dark lashes brush against his cheeks. If he wanted to, he could be handsome. I suppose it doesn’t serve whatever agenda he has. “I’m not a king, as you all know.” He looks back up and turns his gaze on Father, then Cal, then Anabel. “I serve at the will of my people, and my people have other elected politicians to represent their interests. They must be in agreement. When I return to Montfort to request more troops—”

“Return?” Cal echoes, and Davidson stops short. “When did you plan to tell us this?”

After a moment, Davidson shrugs. “Now.”

Mare’s lips twist. Fighting a scowl or a smirk, I can’t tell. But probably the latter.

I’m not the only one to notice. Cal’s eyes flicker, looking between her and the premier with a growing suspicion. “And what will we do in your absence, Premier?” he demands. “Wait? Or fight with one hand tied behind our backs?”

“Your Majesty, I’m flattered you consider Montfort so vital to your cause,” Davidson says, grinning. “I apologize, but the laws of my country cannot be broken, not even in war. I won’t betray the principles of Montfort, and I stand by the rights of my people. After all, they’re some of the people who will help you reclaim your own country.” The warning in his words is just as clear as the easy smile still pasted on his face.

Father is better at this than Cal. He dons an empty smile of his own. “We would never ask a ruler to turn on his own nation, sir.”