No one in my family has made it past the age of fifty since the Godkiller Crusades ended and the Accords were signed. We’re not built to last.

We’re just born to die.

“After each resurrection, it gets worse.” She turns away to stare out of the window. “For days, I’m… not here. Like I’m floating above myself, watching some stranger wear my skin. Nothing feels real. Not the palace, not my art. Not even when I—” She stops and bites her lip. “Not even when I let the guards into my bed. Nothing makes me feel alive anymore.”

I study my sister’s profile, wondering when her face became a stranger’s. How did I miss it?

Everyone calls her the ice princess. They think it’s because she’s cold and untouchable, but they don’t understand that it’s armor meant to freeze out everything that hurts. I’ve watched her perfect the art of burying pain beneath duty for so long that I started to believe the lie myself. But now? She’s shattering right in front of me.

“So we delay it,” I tell her, taking her hand. “I’ll cause a scene tonight. Show everyone my mark. It’ll buy you some time while they’re all distancing themselves from the disgraced Anchor.”

Her brow furrows. “If you do that, the other kings and queens might—”

“What will they do that’s worse than what’s coming?” I give a harsh laugh. “I’m dead, anyway. Might as well make it count.”

“Don’t say that.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “You’re not dead.”

Yes, I am. But I swallow the words back.

Other rulers get off easy with blood offerings—the same fingerprick as every other citizen. But we Devaliants give pieces of our souls, and what has it earned us? Earned me? An appointment with the business end of an Enforcer’s blade and my life snuffed out at the whim of a god. I have nothing left to lose except my sister.

“When I give the signal, follow my lead,” I tell her.

*   *   *

I take my place beside Markus at the garden’s altar.

The drums take up a rhythm, each sonorous beat reverberating through my chest. The weight of hundreds of stares settles on me as the wedding guests crane their necks for a better view of the spectacle.

Theodora places a steadying hand at my elbow and leans in close. To everyone watching, it would seem like she’s comforting a nervous bride. “Almost time. Ready?”

I nod curtly, meeting Markus’ stare.

He’s handsome enough, I suppose. Blond, blue-eyed, athletic, with the typical arrogance of a man with money and status. When his proprietary gaze slides over me, it resembles someone evaluating an acquisition. He paid for me—virginity intact. I’m sure he’s imagining how I’ll look splayed beneath him, spilling my blood on his cock.

Funny how much this feels like another anchoring ritual. Same incense, same blood, different altar. Servants move through the throng in diaphanous scarlet veils, bearing trays of tiny cordials, candied rose petals, and dishes of pomegranate seeds. All styled in homage to the tithe I’ll make tonight in the marriage bed.

At some unseen signal, the crowd ripples, silences, and parts. My uncle emerges from the palace in a gem-encrusted greatcoat that’s ostentatious, bordering on vulgar, but Idris has never been a man burdened by an overabundance of taste. His golden hair is a mess. He’s swaying enough to tell me he’s already several glasses deep in his cups.

Idris barely glances at me as he takes his place to perform the ceremony. His eyes say what his lips won’t: Play your part. Smile nicely for the guests.

He faces the audience. “Friends, honored guests. We’re gathered here this evening to celebrate the marriage of my niece, Her Royal Highness Bryony Devaliant, Princess of the Blood, to Lord Markus von Reding, Captain of the Thirteenth Legion.”

Everyone erupts into applause, peppered with more ribald cheers from some drunker lords. Someone bellows for Markus to “break her in proper-like” amid hoots and guffaws from his companions.

I grit my teeth so hard I swear I hear my molars crack.

Idris turns to my groom. “If you would join hands with your bride?”

Markus’ fingers close around my own and squeeze too hard. I fight down the panic.

“Bryony,” my uncle says. “Repeat after me…”

His words fade with the rushing of my pulse in my ears. I’m expected to recite all the practiced words—the lies—by heart. The vows written by someone else’s hand, spat out by rote.

They’re all watching me now. Waiting. Expecting me to be a good girl and stand here meek and compliant while they give me away to a man who’ll use me however he sees fit. And why shouldn’t they? I’ve spent twenty-one years doing everything I was supposed to, letting them hold me down on altars and kill me. Never fought or questioned anything. I just took it.

Not anymore.

I catch Theodora’s gaze. My sister gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. I nod back—our agreed signal to light the match—and pull my hand from Markus’ grasp.

Inhale. Exhale. Brace for impact.

“Actually,” I announce, “I have something I need to say.”

Idris’ head whips toward me. “Bryony. Now is not the—”

“I had my vows all memorized.” I raise my voice to be heard over the growing swell of confused mutters. “All about gratitude and honor and how eager I am to fulfill my duty.”

I sweep my gaze over the crowd. Their expressions crack a little more with each passing second, lips thinning and eyes narrowing, whispers rising. Good. Let them talk.

“But that would have been a lie,” I continue. “How many of you would be so happy to cheer for this marriage if you knew what I am?”

“Bryony.” Idris’ fingers close hard around my arm. “That’s enough.”

I wrench free of his grip, yanking off my gold cuff—my last flimsy shield ripped away. I hold up my wrist. Hundreds of eyes stare at the brand seared into my flesh, its lines stark and unflinching in the garden’s light, glowing like a beacon. As if it’s calling an Enforcer right to me.

“The truth is, there’s no honor here,” I say into the silence. “Only a princess marked for death.”

No one moves. The collective intake of breath seems to suck all the air from the garden—and then the shouting begins. Chairs scrape against the flagstones as guests surge to their feet. Demands for answers mingle with prayers and frenzied accusations, while others turn to their neighbors in frantic whispers. I see Lord Dunne’s face go ashen, while Lady Moretti clutches her daughter to her chest, backing away. The word “oathbreaker” ripples through the garden.

“She’s marked!”

“The emperor allowed this?”

“… doomed us all…”

Markus recoils from me so violently, you’d think I’d drawn a blade on him. “You—You let me touch you. You’re…”

He spits on the ground between us.

I almost laugh. Five minutes ago, he planned to do much more than touch me, but so much for marital devotion.

Idris’ grip returns, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. “You think this is funny?” He jerks me forward, then rounds on Theodora. “And you—I know your fingerprints are all over this disaster. We’ll discuss your involvement thoroughly.”

He drags me down from the altar. I don’t fight as he hauls me across the garden into the palace. What’s left to save? The mark on my wrist has done what I wanted—destroyed any chance of this marriage happening.

I’ve burned it all down.

Idris flings open the door to my bedchamber and shoves me inside. “I’ll clean up your mess. Tomorrow, we’ll visit the temple. They’ll help me decide what to do with you.” His lip curls. “And fuck you very much, Bryony.”

The door slams shut behind him.

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