Styria, it seemed, was one nation.

Its king rose slowly from the chair and spread his arms wide, palms open, staring straight ahead as though he could see right through the ancient walls of the Senate House and into a brilliant future.

“Our fellow Styrians!” he bellowed, voice ringing from the stones. “Our humble subjects! And our friends from abroad, all welcome here!” Mostly Gurkish friends, but since the Prophet had stretched to such a large diamond for his crown… “The Years of Blood are at an end!” Or they soon would be, once Monza had spilled Orso’s. “No longer will the great cities of our proud land struggle one against the other!” That remained to be seen. “But will stand as brothers eternal, bound willingly by happy ties of friendship, of culture, of common heritage. Marching together!” In whatever direction Rogont dictated, presumably. “It is as if… Styria wakes from a nightmare. A nightmare nineteen years long. Some among us, I am sure, can scarcely remember a time without war.” Monza frowned, thinking of her father’s plough turning the black earth.

“But now… the wars are over! And all of us won! Every one of us.” Some won more than others, it needed hardly to be said. “Now is the time for peace! For freedom! For healing!” Lirozio noisily cleared his throat, wincing as he tugged at his embroidered collar. “Now is the time for hope, for forgiveness, for unity!” And abject obedience, of course. Cotarda was staring at her hand. Her pale palm was mottled pink, almost deep enough to match her scarlet dress. “Now is the time for us to forge a great state that will be the envy of the world! Now is the time—” Lirozio had started to cough, beads of sweat showing on his ruddy face. Rogont frowned furiously sideways at him. “Now is the time for Styria to become—” Patine bent forwards and gave an anguished groan, lips curled back from his teeth.

“One nation…” Something was wrong, and everyone was beginning to see it. Cotarda lurched backwards, stumbled. She caught the gilded railing, chest heaving, and sank to the floor with a rustling of red silk. The audience gave a stunned collective gasp.

“One nation…” whispered Rogont. Chancellor Sotorius sank trembling to his knees, one pink-stained hand clutching at his withered throat. Patine was crouched on all fours now, face bright red, veins bulging from his neck. Lirozio toppled onto his side, back to Monza, his breath a faint wheeze. His right arm stretched out behind him, the twitching hand blotched pink. Cotarda’s leg kicked faintly, then she was still. All the while the crowd stayed silent. Transfixed. Not sure if this was some demented part of the show. Some awful joke. Patine sagged onto his face. Sotorius fell backwards, spine arched, heels of his shoes squeaking against the polished wood, then flopped down limp.

Rogont stared at Monza and she stared back, as frozen and helpless as she had been when she watched Benna die. He opened his mouth, raised one hand towards her, but no breath moved. His forehead, beneath the fur-trimmed rim of the crown, had turned angry red.