I unfasten my bracelet and thrust my arm out, baring the slash carved through Alexios’ Claim. “You mean this incident?”

His fingers close around my wrist, bruising. “What did you do?”

I’ve bled for that Shroud my whole life. Died for it over and over. I refuse to be shamed for this.

“Bryony didn’t do anything,” Theodora snaps. “Alexios revoked her Claim because Hellevig hasn’t been diligent about the tithes. He’s scapegoating her. It’s vindictive.”

“Mind your tone, Theodora.” A muscle jumps in Idris’ jaw. “The Eternal’s word is law. If Alexios decided Bryony’s responsible, it’s not our place to question why.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me on my tone. Not when I’m the one who sat on that throne and held this kingdom together while its emperor was off drinking and fucking his way through every brothel from here to the Red Wastes.”

She’s treading dangerous ground, but I can’t bring myself to stop her. She did pick up the pieces when Idris was gone. And what was her reward? To be cast aside the moment he slunk back from whatever gutter he’d crawled into. Expected to step down without protest.

A fact my sister has never let him forget.

“Bryony wouldn’t be in this position,” she continues, “if you’d spared more than a passing thought for your duty beyond what best serves you. Reminding the people about the tithe is the most basic tenet of statecraft. Is it any wonder Alexios is losing patience with our house? When you can’t even be bothered to uphold your end of the Accords?”

Idris’ hand twitches toward the dagger at his belt. For a moment, I’m certain he’s going to draw it. That today will be the day he finally makes good on his threats to carve the insolence from my sister’s hide.

But then he notices the servants. They’re eyeing us discreetly, listening hard.

Idris slowly leans in, switching to Lybräian, the formal tongue of Vartenan nobility—a language that the staff aren’t permitted to learn.

“That’s rich coming from you, Theodora. Still fucking every guard who looks your way?”

Theodora’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t flinch.

Idris’ lip curls. “The only reason you ever warmed that throne was the Accords’ requirement for a Devaliant ass in the seat. I’d rather let Silas’ horse sit there than see you sully it again.” He gestures at me. “Bryony will wed Markus as planned. Tonight. Whatever mess she’s made, we’ll sort it after.”

“I’m right here,” I snap, the cadence of Lybräian sharp on my tongue. “And in case it’s slipped your notice, I have a death warrant on my skin. I may not live long enough to see my wedding, let alone sort anything after.”

“You won’t be executed immediately. We have a few days, enough time to smooth things over.”

“You don’t know that.” My nails bite into my palms. “I doubt the Enforcers will be inclined to rearrange their busy murder schedule on your whim.”

Idris’ gaze slides to the servants. They’re no longer pretending they aren’t riveted by the scene unfolding before them. They might not understand the heated Lybräian spilling from our lips, but they know good gossip fodder when they see it.

“We’ll go back to the temple tomorrow and send word to Alexios,” he says. “Highlight the position he’ll put himself in if he insists on killing one of his only living Anchors.”

As long as a Devaliant is alive in Hellevig, the Shroud holds. But our family tree withers more each year, pruned by disease, bad luck, and rampant rates of madness and suicide. Dying and coming back over and over breaks us all. Two years ago, shortly after my encounter with the Wolf, my father fell on his blade in the palace forest. Sixteen months ago, Idris’ daughter jumped from a balcony.

Only the three of us remain.

“How noble,” I say. “That you’re fighting so much to make sure I’m shackled to both the altar and my husband’s bed.”

“Spare me the dramatics,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not the only one who dies for the Accords.” He scoops up my discarded bracelet, turning it over in his hands. “You’d better pray Alexios can be persuaded to mercy. Now get inside and make yourself pretty for your groom.”

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7

BRYONY

DEFT FINGERS PLUCK and prod at my hair. The maids twist the pale mass into an elaborate style with loops and curls studded with gems, gossiping about my coming nuptials.

“… heard the Redorans brought three entire rail cars just for the bridal gifts!” one whispers as she wrestles another pin into place. “Spices from Havenridge and enough silk to dress the court twice over.”

Theodora used to tell me a story about a songbird that lived in a golden cage. The nobles who kept it would decorate its wings with jewels until their “gifts” made flying impossible. They called it kindness, devotion. Love.

I think about that damn bird a lot lately.

“Her Highness is so fortunate,” Marigold sighs. “Lord von Reding is gorgeous. I hear he’s very skilled with his—”

“Marigold!” The eldest maid cuts her off with a scandalized hiss.

The maids are putting the finishing touches on my hair and cosmetics when familiar footsteps approach. I glance up to see my sister stride into the room, resplendent in the traditional red silks of a Lucinian wedding ceremony. Scarlet for the guests, silver for the bride—the colors meant to symbolize the blood we give and the Shroud itself.

She pauses on the threshold. “You’re not dressed yet? I thought Idris wanted the ceremony to begin at moonrise.”

I switch to Lybräian so the servants won’t follow our conversation. “He wants me to make an entrance after the guests are drunk enough to appreciate whatever spectacle he has planned.”

Theodora drifts closer, green eyes sweeping over the organized chaos of combs and cosmetics that litter the vanity’s surface. “And what did Idris decide you’re wearing?”

“My gown is designed to tear away with a yank. A thoughtful addition from the couturier at Idris’ request. He called it a ‘marital aid.’”

“He. What.”

“Mmhm. I won’t be surprised if von Reding starts pawing at me before we’ve even left the altar.” I pause, biting my lip. “Theo. Did you know Idris plans to marry you off by the year’s end?”

Her hand clenches into a fist, nails digging into her palm.

“I heard him arranging it with Lord Dunne,” I continue, watching her face darken. “The plan is to chain you to some inbred nobleman from Brevig to secure a new trade deal. He says there’s no excuse for you to still be unmarried without children at twenty-three.”

“That bastard,” she hisses under her breath.

The maids begin lacing me into my wedding dress, pulling the stays so tight I can barely breathe. When they finally release me from their clutches, I’m cinched into a gown of silver shot through with a webwork of shimmering rubies. A heavy choker rests against my collarbones—deliberately placed to hide the scar on my throat.

“It’s perfect, Highness!” Marigold gushes. “Wait until Lord von Reding sees you!”

“Here’s hoping he’s struck dead on the spot,” I say cheerfully.

The maids titter before making their exit.

The instant the door clicks shut, Theodora rounds on me. “I can’t marry. There are… things I need to figure out first. I don’t think I can have children. Not yet.”

“I don’t want to either, but—”

“No.” She grabs my hand. “Listen to me. I dream about it. I keep seeing Odessa’s body at the bottom of the tower, over and over and over.”

My lungs seize. The memory hits me—Theodora stumbling into my room, dress smeared with blood not her own. She’d been the one to find our cousin after Odessa threw herself from the Celestine Tower. Another Devaliant who couldn’t bear the weight anymore.