Tarisia's pale hair had been replaced with a sun-touched gold—enough to blend with common folk. The dye smelled of burnt almonds. She'd learned it from a knightess called Reshte of Yar, a foreigner who'd served her uncle, the last Ophrynth king.

  The pigment came from Qadimra, found only in a tree at the edges of the country’s Sand Seas.

  Reshte used to dye her hair to move unseen through enemy lines, though it didn’t buy her life in the end. She wasn’t beautiful. Beauty saves women.

  Her uncle had trusted his life to a woman with a sword, even though it was forbidden for a woman to pursue knighthood in the north. Tarisia never understood why a woman would choose such path. She’d never pay that price for freedom.

  The military order had not changed since Henreith took the Crown, no women warriors. The Sunsguard and the Pincers both answered to Syr Epstel Grahin, the son of a man who died for the Ophrynths.

  Her mind drifted—as it always did when she needed to blend. To the past.

  When she was betrothed to another.

  To the day Syr Finthor found her.

  To the two men who made her what she became. The living one, the reason she hated men in power. The dead one, the reason she despised magicals.

  She paused before a window. Adjusted her hood. Laughed without sound.

  As if time could smother memory.

  It would never. The rape of her women—mother, sister, cousins. The smell of flesh burning like kindling. The screams that suddenly stopped.

  She'd heard it all. She hid in a wet, filthy trapdoor. Beneath the Marble dungeons.

  Her cousin, Oryon was the only Ophrynth whose body was never found, only his brooch —a bird—was, a brooch he always wore.

  Syr Finthor treated her as a lady and took her to what remained of her family—the Rysuns. The day she was taught she couldn’t trust even in blood. If Warrol hadn’t fallen in love with her at first sight she’d never be taken before the King.

  She remembered Henreith's eyes the instant he saw her. Eyes who told her she would live. No words. Her beauty saved her and her blood made sure no King by her side could be contested.

  Edmund Rysun, the uncle who would have had her killed came with incest allegations. Enough for Henreith to order the execution of his wife. Less than a week later he took Tarisia as his Queen.

  She buried the memory where it could fuel her without consuming her and stepped beyond her chamber. Syr Finthor was already waiting, as he always was. Eighteen years of loyalty. She had never found a way to thank him properly, and so she hadn't tried.

  "Good morning, Syr Finthor." She drew her hood up. "I trust the night was quiet."

  "Quiet enough, your Grace" He fell into step beside her, his voice low, angled away from passing ears. "Your cousin has returned with the Sunsguard and the King."

  "I see." She absorbed as her hands slid into the pockets of her brown cloak.

  The disguise was simple. A cloak over a stolen beige skirt—maid’s clothing. Finthor wore his training fabrics.

  Their footsteps echoed as they walked across the kitchen, a silver elf—with the pink eyes—already at work. He bowed as they passed; she did not look at it.

  Outside, the White City was waking. Fishwives called prices over the sound of the tide. A blacksmith's hammer struck somewhere west of the square. People slowly spilled into the streets, towards obligation. Below the arena's bridge, the river ran its familiar course toward the Sunsdom Sea, indifferent to who wore a Crown or not.

  Little else had changed since the old dynasty. Scaster brown flags had replaced the dark-blue of the Ophrynths'. The eagle had replaced the scorpion. But the bones of the city were still what her family had built. No foreign envoy would have guessed the kingdom's coffers were dry.

  She assessed her surroundings, a tremor within as she looked at so many common faces. Faces that would be forgotten in less than a generation. Faces that accepted oblivion as the price for their freedom. Definitely, a higher price than becoming a warrior.

  The city's layout favoured her—five avenues spiraling inward like a shell, each unerring toward the central square. She reached the tavern in minutes and left Finthor at the door.

  Inside it, the night's ale and morning's bread mingled. A young man swept the same patch of floor he would sweep forever if it wasn’t for her.

  "My lady, we are still closed." He said from the kitchen.

  "Are you closed to your Queen?" She shut the door behind.

  "My Queen." He bowed, scrambling from behind the counter and reaching for her hand.

  "Congratulations," She drew back her hood and her hands before his lips could touch her skin. "I hear Myrthe's has secured a dock in the arena."

  "It would never be possible without you, my Queen."

  "That should give you more intelligence." She gestured toward a cup. He was already moving to pour.

  "I presume you want to partake in such intelligence," he said carefully. Ambition flooded from the pores of men like him—easily smelt, easily managed.

  "Twenty days." She kept her voice even. "I need to know what weakens their powers and how to identify those who carry them."

  She saw the movement of his throat.

  "I thought you wanted to be Lord Pytor." She drained her wine in two sips and turned for the door. "I take pleasure in rewarding those who prove their worth—especially those who have no other means to rise."

  "Ten days," he said. "You will have your answers within ten."

  She didn't reply. She still needed Pytor. He was valuable for what she planned.

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  At the threshold, she paused. "I believe the Crown’s courtesy to the Faith has been enough sign of my good faith. Why haven’t I heard of the High Mahron yet?"

  "It may be wiser to meet the Empysitor, my Queen," he replied smoothly. "Upon his return to Sunsdom, I shall arrange it."

  "Good." She closed the door before his reverence.

  The son of the baker who’d learned his means while still young. He had orbited nobles, asking what services he might render. In time, he'd gathered more connections than anyone in Sunsdom—second to Beyr.

  They retraced their steps, Finthor walked beside her the way good soldiers should—attentive and silent.

  She entered the castle through the same narrow door, hurried to her room and shed the maid’s clothes. When she was fastening the last clasp of her pale rose gown, Henreith's voice thundered from below.

  "What in the name of The Five are you plotting, woman?" He echoed through the Marbl corridors.

  She hurried a floor down to his quarters. She found him—still tall, still lean, the man she'd once thought beautiful waving a folded paper as though it were a sword.

  His eyes had gone feral, even darker. Tarisia crossed to the sideboard and poured two goblets of Yer'shan wine.

  "Why are you asking me dear?" she asked, as innocent as a flower in his garden.

  He gave the paper to her, "I don't recall loaning the hall to these faith zealots! Nor did Aurpius! That leaves me one option!"

  "Take some wine, dear." She passed him the goblet—the blackest of the wines, smelling of smoke and dried fruit. A peace offering.

  Beyond the arched window, the Pirate's Bay spread wide beneath them—ships, their port, the patient machinery of commerce. The morning wind off the water, refreshing.

  "Why persist in that hate, Tarisia?" He sounded tired. The way a man sounds when he’d stopped believing his own arguments.

  Tarisia swallowed her wine like ash, it coated her tongue like oil. She thought of her past once more. About the , long gone. About the prophecy. Of where she had been standing when she heard it. Of who had been standing beside her. She’d never voice it, not to him.

  "We've spoken of this, Henreith." She said walking to the oriel window.

  "The High Mahron wants to rival royalty’s wealth with the Magical’s contracts! How do you think they can afford such power so quickly? Magicals are their greatest competition—and you would give him more leverage?"

  She already knew but then, shared enemies made useful allies.

  "On one side, fanatics with high ambition," he continued. "On the other, people who have controlled quilverns for a millennium." His eyes found hers over his goblet.

  "And you would still marry our son to one of them?" She screamed, removing herself from the balcony to get more wine.

  "I despise them. Not as much as you Tarisia but we already chose our side." His eyes lost to the vastness of the ocean ahead. "Doesn't seem like the Faith intends to marry. And honestly?" He looked to her over his shoulder, "They'd never win against her. Against magic."

  "Why are we drained? What about the Lords, the banners? You are the King!" She snapped.

  His dark eyes pressed her green ones.

  He had aged well. He had never been fair as their sons, as Aurpius—his features were rougher, lived-in. But he carried himself like a man who'd never been refused. Women noticed. Women always noticed.

  "The tournaments. The grain. The arena. Entertainment costs, Tarisia. We already borrowed their money, the Magical taxes were better than whatever the Hidden would demand." He admitted.

  "What about the banners? The Republicans? The Gem Bank—"

  "Is theirs! They control the damn money! No one else would extend us more gold." He set his cup down.

  Tarisia felt her breath unsettling. She was far more worried about having Aurpius married to a Zihem than about their debt.

  The silence that followed was honest—the kind of honesty that demanded payment, more so coming from men like him.

  She felt his eyes move to her throat. That hunger. She had hated it once. She'd hated until she learned to wield it.

  His lust, his desire were her power now. A token of the influence she had over him.

  Two knocks on the door startled them. Reechter. The kingdom's official messenger entered in fancy leather clothes, he delivered a paper sealed in green wax—Thorne's seal

  "Your Grace." The man bowed and waited.

  "You may go, Reech." Henreith ordered, still reading. "It wasn't necessary to send Aurpius to get the answer… She accepted." He announced before Tarisia could ask.

  "He went to invite them personally for the games." Tarisia said more to herself than him. "Why would she accept it?"

  "She has conditions."He passed a hand through his hair—the same gesture as Aurpius. "She wants the princess to marry Torvam. Both of them live in the South.

  Tarisia let a hollow laugh out, standing with both hands on her waist. "As if wedding the Crown Prince isn't honourable enough. She demands more.”

  "She has the upper hand Tarisia! And she's been ruling better than every man I ever heard of." He screamed. "We're going to accept it."

  Tarisia controlled the hot wave that coiled in her guts. Her fingers stilled on her glass. The scream built in her throat—she let it die there, swallowing it like glass.

  Torvam was manageable. Aurpius was reliable—no woman would reach her crown prince's level.When Aurpius succeeded Henreith, with no other woman by his side it would be much easier for her to keep her position.

  And after her death eventually Torvam and Viperyan's son would be the next in line.

  "Tarisia?" the king asked, cautiously.

  "Perhaps it can serve us better." She confessed. "A seat of power in two of the three kingdoms." Tarisia let a smirk take her face. Aurpius was going nowhere away from her. "Maybe we can marry one of your daughters to a Republican."

  "You are an odd woman." Henreith's brows knitted together, he didn’t mean unkindly. "I will accept it… What about Torvam's affliction?"

  "Perhaps the magicals have something for it." She kept her face still.

  "Don't you think of their powers as filthy?" As usual Henreith always found a way to get under her skin.

  "Their powers. Their benefits. If we had the same, it wouldn't ever be an issue." she declared.

  "I will pretend that makes sense." He was already looking at her the way he looked when he had decided to stop arguing.

  Then his eyes betrayed him. The quick look away from her face.

  "There is more," she said.

  "She demands a ceremony.." The king said carefully. "They must travel south a week after the wedding—"

  She set her glass against the balcony rail. Hard. Not hard enough to break it.

  "No! I will not lose my baby too soon!" She lost it.

  "We have no other option Tarisia!" He walked towards her.

  She struck his chest once and turned away. She hated that she was left only small whispers and scheming beneath the tables. No voice at all. The morrow’s air hit her warm now she folded her arms. Below, the sea churned against the rocks—restless like her soul.

  She had decided years ago that she would not weep, and she had not broken it since.

  She had only three children. Two didn't seem to notice her and the only one who did, was now demanded to live away, pulled from her.

  "What if someone were to breach the agreement from her side?" she said, looking at the shore. "One of the attacks—what if it traced back to someone close to the Thorne Queen herself?"

  "Our debt won't be pardoned…" the King tried to say.

  "You're selling our son!" she bit the inside of her lips.

  "As they're doing with the girl." justified the King.

  "You've heard about the attacks, right?" Tarisia pressed.

  "Yes Tarisia, but I highly doubt they come from their lot.."

  Silence stretched between them until Henreith answered about the treaty.

  "If her people directly attack ours we attack them back. Which I hope doesn’t happen. We do not have the numbers. It would be suicidal." He finished drying the wine jar.

  "Does the Republic?" Tarisia questioned.

  He stilled.

  "Invite Gaeos Klassear to the games," she said. "A proposal. A union through love." She turned back. "And if they breach the agreement after, any pardon comes with conditions that serve us."

  A smirk formed on Henreith's lips.

  "Polynee!" screamed the Queen.

  Without another word, the king crossed to her. He gripped her hips and lifted her without ceremony. She wrapped her legs around him and felt his need against her.

  She let herself want it too. She let herself lust over him.

  The knock came.

  "Come in," Tarisia called, still in his arms.

  Polynee entered and did her best to bow looking away.

  "Order Reechter to invite Gaeos Klassear to the arena's opening," Tarisia said. "A proposal to unite our kingdoms through love."

  Polynee had been with Tarisia since childhood. There was nothing she didn’t know, nothing she wouldn't do for her queen.

  "Send Aurpius," Henreith added.

  "He’s not the messeng—"

  Opposing Henreith openly had always served her better than agreement.

  "He's already en route with the Paladins. The message carries more weight from him." He said, already kissing the base of her neck.

  "Thank you, Polynee…" The king said, his fingers already tracing beneath Tarisia’s gown, climbing her thighs.

  Polynee left.

  "As if possible, you are even more sexy playing politics…" Henreith was definitely seducing his wife and Tarisia allowed him to.

  As her king’s hand found her wetness she allowed a loud moan to tear her throat.

  He had never been the love of her life but he was the most powerful man in Easeror and at the moment she was the one with power over him and that power held the greatest of the pleasures.