He nods weakly, still getting his bearings.

I turn away before he sees me and realizes how much I want to stay.

Ocean Hill was a favorite of Coriane, the dead queen I never knew. It’s a favorite of her son as well.

The palace is polished white stone with blue domed roofs crowned in silver flames, still magnificent even through the trailing smoke and falling ash. We circle the plaza in front of the palace gates, usually a mess of traffic. The only activity seems to be at the neighboring Security Center, now overrun with coalition soldiers. As we pass, they rip down the red, black, and silver banners, as well as the hung images of Maven Calore. One by one, they set fire to the symbols. I watch his face burn, blue eyes locked on mine through a devouring tangle of red flame.

The streets themselves are empty, and the fountain I remember, beautiful beneath a dome of crystal, is dry. War walks the stones of Harbor Bay.

The palace gates are already open, yawning wide for Farley and me. We’ve been here before, as intruders. Fugitives. Not today.

When the transport slows, Farley is quick to clamber out, gesturing for me to follow. But I hesitate, still haunted by the events of the morning. It’s only been a few hours since I watched Tiberias almost die. I can’t get the sight out of my head.

“Mare,” she prods, her voice low. It’s enough to snap me into action.

The cerulean doors of the palace swing open on silent hinges, revealing two members of the Scarlet Guard keeping watch. Their ripped scarves are ruby bright, hopelessly out of place, and a sharp, unmistakable sign.

We have returned here as conquerors.

Ocean Hill still reeks of disuse and abandonment. I don’t think Maven ever set foot inside once he became king. Coriane’s faded golden colors hang from the walls and vaulted ceiling. It remains a tomb to a forgotten queen, empty but for her memory and perhaps even her ghost.

I see an odd reversal as I walk, noting the faces around me. A few Reds of the Scarlet Guard keep watch, their weapons openly displayed, but most seem without purpose. Recovering in the wake of battle, dozing against opulent columns or lazily exploring the many salons and chambers branching off the central gallery. It’s the Silvers who busy themselves with more menial work, probably on Anabel’s orders. They have to prepare Tiberias’s new seat, his palace, to mark him as a legitimate ruler and king. They open windows, pull the covers from furniture, even dust off sills and statues. I blink at the sight, overwhelmed. Silvers doing housework. What a concept. The Red servants must have fled, and the Reds still here certainly won’t do it for them.

I don’t recognize anyone in passing. No Julian. Not even Anabel supervising as her sworn soldiers prepare the palace. It worries me, because there’s only one other place they could be. And clearly they have to be there.

I’m almost sprinting when Evangeline catches me, springing out from around a corner. Her armor is gone, discarded for lighter underclothes. If the battle was difficult for her, she certainly doesn’t look it. While everyone else is dirty, if not still bloody, Evangeline Samos looks fresh from a cold bath.

“Get out of my way” is all I can manage, trying to step around her. Farley halts, looking on with a glare.

“Let her go, Samos,” she snarls.

Evangeline ignores her. Instead she seizes my shoulders, forcing me to look her in the eye. I resist the familiar urge to deck her and instead let her look. To my surprise, she searches me over, eyes lingering on my many cuts and bruises.

“You should see a healer first; we have plenty,” she says. “You look horrible.”

“Evangeline—”

She sharpens. “He’s fine. I promise you that.”

My eyes snap to hers. “I know that,” I hiss. “I saw him with my own eyes.” Even so, I clench my teeth at the memory, too fresh and still too painful.

He’s alive; he survived her, the nymph princess, I remind myself. His brother’s deadly queen. I could wring his neck for doing it, challenging a nymph in the middle of the Bay. I’ve seen Tiberias Calore balk at swimming across a stream. He hates water, fears it like nothing else. It’s the worst and easiest way for him to die.

Evangeline bites her lip, watching me. She likes something in what she sees. When she speaks again, her voice is changed, softened. A featherlight whisper. “I can’t forget it. How he sank like a stone, armor and all,” she says, moving close enough to speak in my ear. The words twist around me, prickling on my skin. “How long was it until the healers got him breathing again?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to remember. I know what you’re doing, Evangeline. And it’s working. Tiberias, pale and dead, his body soaked through. Mouth parted, eyes open and empty. Unseeing. Shade’s body was the same, and it haunts me still. When I open my eyes again, Tiberias’s corpse is still there, hovering in my mind. I can’t shake the sight.

“That’s enough,” Farley says, stepping bodily between us. She all but hauls me away, with Evangeline smirking.

She falls into step behind us, prodding me in the right direction like I’m a cow being led to pasture. Or slaughter.

I don’t know Ocean Hill, but I know palaces well enough to know what I’m looking for. We climb a garish, winding stairwell to the residences, a floor dotted with royal chambers and apartments. Up here, away from the more public levels, the dust is worse than ever. It puffs up from the carpet in clouds. Coriane’s colors are all over. Gold and yellow, pale and worn. Forgotten everywhere but here. I wonder if they bring her son pain. Her son who almost joined her in death.

The king’s chambers are vast, opening off a guarded entry lined with Lerolan soldiers. They share Anabel’s colors and her coloring. Black hair and bronze eyes. Tiberias’s eyes. No one stops us as we pass, stepping into the sunken room now serving as a receiving chamber. A very crowded one.

I see Julian first, his back to the arched windows looking out on the now-sparkling Bay. It gleams blue in the afternoon sun. He angles his face to me, features pulling into an expression I can’t name. Sara Skonos stands at his side, her posture violently straight with her hands clasped in front of her. Though her hands are clean, the sleeves of her simple uniform are crusted to the elbows in both red and silver blood. I shudder at it. She doesn’t notice me at first, focused on the mountainous man in the center of the room. He sinks to his knees.

Farley quietly takes a seat, maneuvering herself in between a pair of Scarlet Guard lieutenants. She gestures for me to join her, but I stay put. I prefer the edges of this particular crowd.

I’ve never officially met the ruling lord of House Rhambos, but I recognize his bulk, even kneeling. His robes are unmistakable, resplendent in rich chocolate and crimson edged with precious stones. He is their leader, and the ruling governor of this city and region. His hair is dirty blond giving over to gray, braided back from his face in once-intricate rows. They’re coming undone, either from the battle or from the great lord pulling at his hair in desperation. I suppose both.

Silvers are not accustomed to surrendering.

I exhale, and will myself to look up from Rhambos’s shoulders to the true king standing above him. Sword in hand. The sight of him erases the corpse from my mind.

His fingers hold firm, unwavering, his grip tight on the adorned hilt of the ceremonial blade. Where it came from, I don’t know. It isn’t the sword Elara made him kill his father with, but it looks close enough. And I’m sure he remembers it now, as he stands above another man begging for his life. It must pain him, to do this to someone else. And of his own volition this time.