My mother’s necklace.

“It was in his pocket,” he explains. “I thought it might be yours.”

My fingers are reverent as I trace the teardrop pendant. “It was Mama’s,” I whisper. “Thank you.” I slowly meet his eyes. “Did—did he have anything else?”

Sorka shakes his head.

He must have had my ring melted down. Or thrown into the sea. Or stuffed in a messy drawer like an unimportant afterthought.

I don’t know which one is worse.

“We need a new plan,” Sorka says, pulling me from my tangled thoughts. “With the Dark Commander in our grasp, we have leverage over Arbinj.”

“What does Father plan to do now?” I ask. Cold dread slithers its icy tentacles up my spine. It coils around my throat, poised to choke.

“You can ask him yourself. He arrives tonight.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

SORKA DOESN’T LEAVE ME alone for the rest of the day. A dense haze clouds my mind, but I try to focus as he gives me a tour of the camp. In the center is, of course, my battered husband strung up on a wooden platform. Around the camp’s perimeter, tents are staked into the ground in a semi-circle. On one side, there’s an open space where warriors are training. Beside them, a handful of horses paw the ground, tied to trees. One of the warriors tends to them; his posture is tense, wary of the unfamiliar animals.

Sorka introduces me to the men—there are a handful of waterwielders, though most are nonwielders. Vykiss is the only healer, and the only other woman, amongst them.

Sorka tells me that after the escalating Rebellion attacks, Arbinj had allowed Tundrayn to set up a few camps deeper within their borders. This camp is one of many smaller ones, though most of Tundrayn’s forces remain on our side of the border. A handful of warriors remain in hiding in the Arbinji capital, though without Daak to lead them, they’ll need to find their own way home.

As we walk through camp, warriors stop to greet us. I nod politely, but my eyes keep drifting to where Zev is tied up. A strange sense of disorientation clouds my senses, like my head is submerged in water. Shards of ice lodge in my throat, scratching each breath I take.

I can’t stop looking. I can’t stop caring.

Tides damn me.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

He hates me. He was planning to kill me.

Even still—he saved me from Sulon. And he killed all of his men.

For me.

But he put me in that position.

After he learned of my betrayal. After he murdered Daak.

Tides, take me. My thoughts oscillate wildly like a broken compass.

I don’t hear a word Sorka says.

At night, I pace in my tent, wearing a worn path in the yellowing grass beneath my boots.

There’s a soft rustling as the tent flap opens. Vy enters, her eyes misty and red.

My steps falter, brows furrowing. “Are you all right?”

She clears her throat, nodding slightly, before settling onto her cot beside mine. Trembling hands skate over the sheets until there’s not a wrinkle left. Then her hands clench the fabric, knuckles white, before smoothing out the wrinkles again.

“The general’s son,” she finally murmurs, not quite meeting my eyes. “You knew him well?”

My throat tightens. “Yes. Daak. How did you know?”

She doesn’t respond, just watches me silently, but I can practically hear the words lingering on her tongue.

The general told me.

You two were close.

He loved you. Did you love him back?

But when she speaks, it’s not at all what I expect.

“You care for the Dark Commander.”

I freeze.

Her words aren’t accusing—they just are.

When I don’t answer, she continues. “It was his name—Zev—you were calling in your drugged sleep. And when you saw his condition this morning … well, your face spoke for you.”

I scrub a hand over my damning face.

“It’s—it’s complicated.”

She hums but doesn’t press further. “You should eat. Keep your reserves high. It can be disorienting after a massive power sharing.”

Vy’s right. I’ve felt a strange sense of dizziness all day that I don’t remember from the first time Zev channeled into me. Maybe because he shared so much more this time—because I tricked him into it.

I sit on my thin mattress, only a foot of space between us, munching on the dried meat she hands me. “Vy…” I start, brows knitting together. She seems quite knowledgeable about power sharing and its effects. “Have you power shared before?”

She blanches, her spine going rigid.

“Yes.” Her voice is so soft, it’s almost lost in the scant space between our cots. “But not by choice.”

Tides drag me into uncharted waters. My blood runs cold.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, because what else can I say?

She shrugs, like the only way she can keep going is to pretend it doesn’t matter. “It was years ago. I was stationed by the border. That night, I was alone in the healing tent, cleaning up. Two waterwielders entered—I had healed them earlier that day.” A broken, humorless laugh wrenches from her throat. “I thought they had injured themselves again. One of them held me down while the other channeled his power into me. Not a lot. But it was enough.” Her glistening blue eyes rise to meet mine.

“Then they just had to wait.”

Her words pierce my heart like serrated shards of ice.

No wonder power sharing is forbidden.

Tides, drown those men. Let their bodies bloat, faces turn ashen. Let them be torn limb from limb by ravenous sharks, their remains scattered in the vast oceans.

“I’m so sorry, Vy,” I whisper. “Did you—”

She nods quickly. “I reported them. Sorka was the general at the camp … he was very kind. Understanding. He believed me even when those men denied it. They said I was willing.” She spits the word like a curse, and her hands fist the sheets again. “We can’t execute wielders, as you know—too valuable. But he put them on the front lines. He told me himself when they’d been killed a month later.”

I hope their deaths were painful.

Foolishly, I hope it was Zev who killed them.

I open my mouth, more comforting words poised on my tongue, when there’s movement outside the tent. Frantic thudding of boots, muffled shouts.

Then, his booming voice echoes—deep, commanding, and familiar enough to freeze my blood.

Father has arrived.

CHAPTER SIXTY

MY TIDESDAMNED HEART BEATS in my throat as I exit the tent on shaky legs like a newborn reindeer. Warriors crowd the clearing, craning their necks to see their king, a wall of leather and muscle and reverence.

And there he is—cutting through the throng in flowing robes trimmed with fur, long white beard gathered with a blue ribbon. He needs no crown. There’s an innate regality in his posture that I’ve tried to mimic for years.

I’ve never mastered it. Perhaps, I never will.

Father isn’t looking at me, though.

His icy gaze is frozen on Zev as he stalks toward the platform.

But my husband can’t be bothered to look at him.

His one open eye is riveted to me.

Father reaches the platform, long robes trailing behind him.

My lungs hold my breath captive. Zev is still watching me, hands clenched, knuckles white. Father follows his gaze—he could never stand to be ignored. His cold eyes land on me. For a second, I think—I hope—they might soften at seeing his only child after months.

But they don’t. The ice in his eyes doesn’t melt. His gaze doesn’t linger for even a breath. I may as well have been part of the scenery. He looks through me, as he so often has.