The implication of her words is not lost on anyone. Cal gives a strangled sort of yelp, a gasp very unbecoming of a prince, let alone a king.
“Even after all this, Queenstrial still brought forth a royal bride.” Mother runs a hand over mine, her fingers crossing where my wedding ring will be.
Suddenly the high chamber feels stifling, and the smell of blood crashes through my senses. It’s all I can think about, and I lean into the distraction, letting the sharp iron bite overwhelm me. My jaw clenches, teeth tight against all the things I want to say. They rattle in my throat, begging to be loose. I don’t want this anymore. Let me go home. Each word is a betrayal to my house, my family, my blood. My teeth grate against one another, bone on bone. A locked cage for my heart.
I feel trapped inside myself.
Make him choose, Mare. Make him turn me aside.
She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling at rapid speed. Like me, she has too many words she wants to scream. I hope she sees how much I want to refuse.
“No one thought to consult me,” the prince hisses, pushing his grandmother away. His eyes burn. He has perfected the art of glaring at a dozen people at once. “You mean to make me a king—without my consent?”
Anabel has no fear of flame and seizes his face again. “We’re not making you anything. We’re simply helping you be what you are. Your father died for your crown, and you want to throw it away? For who? Abandon your country? For what?”
He has no answer. Say no. Say no. Say no.
But already I see the tug. The lure. Power seduces all, and it makes us blind. Cal is not immune to it. If anything, he is particularly vulnerable. All his life he watched a throne, preparing for a day it would be his. I know firsthand that’s not a habit a person can easily break. And I know firsthand that few things taste sweeter than a crown. I think of Elane again. Does he think of Mare?
“I need some air,” he whispers.
Of course, Mare follows him out, sparks trembling in her wake.
On instinct, I almost call for another cup of wine. But I refrain. Mare isn’t here to stop the commander if she snaps again, and more alcohol will just make me sicker than I already am.
“Long live Tiberias the Seventh,” Anabel says.
The chamber echoes the sentiment. I only mouth the words. I feel poisoned.
EPILOGUE
He scrapes his bracelets together angrily, letting his wrists spit sparks. None of them catch or burst into flame. Spark after spark, each one cold and weak compared to mine. Useless. Futile. I follow him down a spiraling stair to a balcony. If it has a lovely view, I don’t know. I don’t have the capacity to see much farther than Cal. Everything inside me quivers.
Hope and fear battle through me in equal measure. I see it in Cal too, flashing behind his eyes. A storm rages in the bronze, two kinds of fire.
“You promised,” I whisper, trying to tear him apart without moving a muscle.
Cal paces wildly before putting his back to the rails of the balcony. His mouth flops open and closed, searching for something to say. For any explanation. He’s not Maven. He’s not a liar, I have to remind myself. He doesn’t want to do this to you. But will that stop him?
“I didn’t think—what logical person could want me to be king after what I’ve done? Tell me if you truly thought anyone would let me near a throne,” he says. “I’ve killed Silvers, Mare, my own people.” He buries his face in his blazing hands, scrubbing them over his features. Like he wants to pull himself inside out.
“You killed Reds too. I thought you said there was no difference.”
“Difference not division.”
I snarl. “You make a wonderful speech about equality but let that Samos bastard sit there and claim a kingdom just like the one we want to end. Don’t lie and say you didn’t know about his terms, his new crown. . . .” My voice trails away before I can speak the rest aloud. And make it real.
“You know I had no idea.”
“Not one?” I raise an eyebrow. “Not a whisper from your grandmother. Not even a dream of this?”
He swallows hard, unable to deny his deepest desires. So he doesn’t even try. “There’s nothing we can do to stop Samos. Not yet—”
I slap him across the face. His head moves with the momentum of the blow and stays that way, looking out to the horizon I refuse to see.
My voice cracks. “I’m not talking about Samos.”
“I didn’t know,” he says, the words soft on the ash wind. Sadly, I believe him. It makes it harder to stay angry, and without anger I have only fear and sorrow. “I really didn’t know.”