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At last, Adrastos’ eyes flicked over my shoulder to Bartholomew. He gave a lazy wave of his hand, and without a word, the captain grasped my bicep, hauling me backward and out of the room—but not before I spat one last word at Adrastos.

“Pathetic.”

The bastard just held my gaze as I stumbled after his cousin.

In silence, Bartholomew ushered me through the cordoned-off aisle between cheering Bellpost warriors. Down the endless corridor and up the even longer winding stairs.

It wasn’t until I was back in my chamber that he murmured, “Thames was a friend. Loyal to Rhiannon—to Adrastos and Elizabeth.”

“Why?” I breathed back. “How could he kill him?”

“Your hatred might be warranted, witchling, but it was gathered without understanding.”

Some foreign, foolish, naïve part of my inner child perked up with something like hope—a vulnerability I could not afford in this hellscape. “You’re insinuating that Moros commanded him to do that? You expect me to believe the king forced him to execute his own soldier when Adrastos has the deepest well of magic I’ve ever seen?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” He turned those haunted eyes down to my face, agony beneath his tight expression.

Yes, the broken thing inside me whispered. Because I wanted to. I’d trusted him to heal Mags’ broken pieces—to set her right—and despite every instinct, I’d pushed her straight into his arms. I wanted to believe the man who’d pulled my sister from the depths of her despair had meant it: the things he’d said, the strength he’d given her. Wanted to believe the kindness he’d shown me wasn’t feigned. Wanted to believe I wasn’t such a foolish girl that I’d fallen⁠—

“No.”

“Then perhaps you’ll believe this: Adrastos says there is no more effective way to reconnect a warrior with their true spirit than to place a blade in their hand when they are lost.”

I blinked. “What in the Seven Sisters does that mean?”

“You tell me, witchling.”

But there, in those bottomless brown eyes, the captain was begging me for something: to understand. To put the pieces together. To make sense of his master’s riddles. Head still spinning with his words, I watched as he slipped back into the hallway and shut my door—leaving me alone, as if he’d never come in the first place.

TWENTY-ONE

FLASHBANG

FREYA

131:23:45:17

“Jesus, Freya. Have you slept?”

“Lots of coffee,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the murder board even as Tessa Westerlund sidled up and elbowed my bicep. I turned to find one disapproving brow arched over those bottomless cerulean princess eyes of hers. “Fucking hell, it’s good to see you.”

She hoisted up a fresh cup of coffee, her lips turning up in wicked irony. “You’re just saying that because I’m a shameless enabler.”

I accepted the offering, clinging to the paper cup like a goddamn lifeline in a tempest. Might as well have been. Mostly to keep the chaos in my skull from spilling out of my mouth, I took a near-scalding sip. Winced. Decided caffeine was worth sacrificing a layer of tongue, and swallowed another mouthful.

“You could let it cool first, you psycho,” she quipped.

“Only half as hot as you are, darling, and I’m not about to douse that flame.”

With a dramatic swish of her braids, she drawled, “Why, Freya Porter. What have I told you about coming onto me?” in her best Southern accent. I snickered, taking another sip as the spark in her eyes vanished as fast as it had flared. Like a flashbang—there and gone. And there it was: the look that made my skin crawl.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Fuck, like I’ve got any left. But… Freya… what’s going on? We haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“What’s going on?” I echoed, rocking on my heels, fighting the urge to rip off the armor cinched around my middle before it suffocated me. “What’s going on? You really wanna know?”

“No,” she deadpanned, running her short nails over the embossed leather cover of Persuasion by Jane Austen on my desk. I had no idea where it came from or who’d left it, but it smelled like citrus and tobacco, so it stayed exactly where I’d found it. “I just felt like jumping nine hundred miles for a truly terrible cup of coffee.”