I stare at my lap. Tundrayn will send me.

“Is there anything else we’ve learned about Crown Prince Faramir?” one of Father’s advisers asks, a wiry man in faded blue furs. “I … worry for Princess Mayah.”

At least someone does.

No, no. I can’t think like that. I’ve known my duty since I was a young girl. This is what I want—a better world, a safer world for my people. But still … I wish Father cared more about my safety. About what it means to send me into the arms of his enemy.

“Nothing new,” Father replies. “We only know that he’s a powerful earthwielder. Varad keeps him removed from the spotlight.”

Anger churns in my belly, hot and ever-present, at the thought of King Varad. Father may be cold and distant, but Varad is ruthless.

A monster. A murderer.

I was surprised when I learned the Arbinji king had accepted Father’s proposal—there are years and years of bad blood and broken marriages stacked between us. But it’s a fool’s dream to think Varad wants unity after decades of war. The alliance has more to do with the Rebellion and little to do with peace.

“Sorka, update me on the warfront,” Father rumbles, stroking his long, white beard.

My gaze lands on the lean, middle-aged man directly across from me, Father’s top general and Daak’s father. Sorka’s familiar blue eyes find mine, and he dips his chin in greeting.

Sorka has always been kind to me.

“With the exception of the attack a few days ago, Arbinj seems to be honoring the ceasefire,” Sorka announces to the council. Sunlight streams through the large windows, highlighting the white streaks in his tightly braided hair. “I’ll leave for the border tonight. Make sure they keep to the agreement.”

Father frowns. “Stay for a few more days, Sorka. Spend time with your son. You’re always desperate to return to camp. With a ceasefire in place, surely the warriors can survive without you for that long.”

My gaze flicks to Daak—he rolls his eyes dramatically, and I’m forced to bite my lip to contain my smile. Ironic of Father to insist Sorka spend time with Daak, when he can’t spare more than a few minutes for me at a time.

Sorka waves Father off with a laugh. His face is lined with age—but he’s still handsome. It’s how I imagine Daak will look in his fifties.

“I wouldn’t be a very good general if I didn’t take my responsibilities seriously,” Sorka says. “Besides, you keep my Daak busy enough as it is.”

Father grumbles but carries on with the meeting. “Any news of the Rebellion?”

A different adviser stands. “No new attacks, Your Majesty. The alliance with Arbinj must have them scared. The alliance, especially at this juncture, was a fine idea, Majesty.” He clears his throat, hands wringing together. “Though … I’ve heard whispers that even more wielders have joined their cause.”

Father scoffs. “Filthy traitors. Turning on their people and aligning themselves with commons.” My nails dig so hard into my palms, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.

I understand why the Rebellion exists. It rose up within the last two decades, attacking both Tundrayn and Arbinj alike. At first, they were a minor inconvenience—fires set to supply carriages and stolen food stores. But the rebels have grown stronger within the last ten years, fighting for equality for nonwielders.

And nonwielders are treated abhorrently by both kingdoms. The matter is personal to me.

Sura and Tumaas had been nonwielders.

My mother had been a nonwielder.

And all of them are dead.

Daak clears his throat, pulling my attention. He looks pointedly at my lap, lips pursed. I relax my fists, inhaling deeply.

“Don’t let them fool you,” Father continues, either oblivious or uncaring of the anguish roiling inside me. “If we’re not careful, the Rebellion will lay claim to even more land. Has there been any progress with the captured rebel?” Father’s stern, ice-blue gaze sweeps the room.

A large man rises, and I recognize him as the pompous waterwielder who insisted I heal his scraped-up team before the injured nonwielders.

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” he says, chest puffed out. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. “The captain’s men are still working on him.”

Father runs a hand over his long beard. “Have the truthwielder brought in. We’ll get our answers sooner.” Truthwielders are heavily monitored, just like heartwielders. We only have one in Tundrayn—and Father still hasn’t learned her name. “Any other matters?”

Another adviser rises and gestures to the door. It opens, and three guards drag in two prisoners—a young man and woman, dressed in faded blue and white furs. Thick iron collars wrap around their necks, their wrists bound with rope.

I recognize them as lower-level waterwielders that work within the palace—they help control the flow of water through the structure. And smooth out scuffed paths. The iron collars suppress their wielding abilities.

“These two were caught power sharing,” the adviser announces, his lip curled with disgust.

Father’s mouth curves into a cold smile. “Planning an attack, were you? Consolidating your powers?”

“No!” the young man protests, blue eyes wide with fear. There’s a large, purpling bruise on his cheek. My hands glow faintly in my lap before I clench my fists. “No, we were—”

“Enough,” Father cuts him off. “Send them to the front lines.”

“Your Majesty,” Sorka protests, the lines tightening around his mouth. “They’re young. I’m certain they meant no harm. Perhaps, let them—”

“Are you questioning my ruling? Our law?” Father snaps, fixing Sorka with an icy glare. The room grows quiet and still. Most of the advisers stare at their laps. None look at me.

“Of course not,” Sorka says placatingly. His voice drops to a low whisper. “You know they were—”

“I will hear no more,” Father says sharply, his gaze flitting to me.

With a wave of his hand, the prisoners are dragged away, the door slamming shut.

Father’s sharp eyes cut to me again. I resist the urge to shrink into myself. “As for the other pressing matter … the Arbinji crown prince arrives tomorrow.”

My heart stops.

“Tomorrow?” I manage. My knuckles bloom white as snow. “We weren’t expecting him for another two weeks.”

Father shrugs. “Scouts spotted their carriages. They will reach the palace tomorrow. I’ve already instructed the servants to prepare for the betrothal ceremony. You will be ready, Daughter?”

I wish I could turn and look at Daak, but Father’s cold gaze pins me in place. My heart hammers in my chest, and a shrill ringing sounds in my ears.

Tomorrow? I thought I had more time.

“Mayah,” Father snaps, and I flinch. “You will be ready.”

“Yes, Father.” It’s a battle to keep my voice firm.

After the meeting adjourns, the council shuffles out of the room, but I linger behind. Daak shoots me a questioning glance, but I just shake my head. The doors close behind him with a heavy thud, and silence stretches across the council chamber.

I don’t move. I remain seated beside Father, hands clasped in my lap.

He rises, walking away, but I speak before I lose my nerve.

“Father.”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn.

“The betrothal means I leave Tundrayn tomorrow.”

“Yes.” He still doesn’t face me.

“I—I’m afraid.”

That’s what finally makes him turn.

“You are a woman of twenty-five. Not a frightened, sniveling child.” Something inside me shrivels. Father’s mouth opens and shuts, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mayah,” he sighs, shoulders dropping slightly. “You are giving Tundrayn a new future. The one it deserves.”

I flinch beneath the weight of his heavy gaze.

“I know. I’m ready. And I’ll—”

He steps closer, then slowly, almost reluctantly, removes one of his fur-lined gloves. With bare fingers, he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear—an unfamiliar gesture, awkward and uncertain.