“I understand perfectly.” Bitterness coated her every word. Wren turned away from her and wrapped herself tighter in Hal’s jacket. The smell of it—of Hal—nearly wrecked her. “Are you done talking yet? The queen says I need my rest. You wouldn’t want to disobey her orders, would you?”

She expected another argument, but Una only sighed. Wren didn’t know what to make of the hoarseness in Una’s voice when she said, “Yes. I’m done.”

With those three words, Una abandoned her. How had she been so foolish to believe Una would help her, that justice could be stronger than hatred? Maybe Lowry was right. Maybe they could never escape this cycle of war, this inherited violence. They were cursed to bleed and bleed and bleed until nothing and no one remained. Wren felt herself falling into some dark place inside herself—so dark, she didn’t know if she could find her way back to the light again.

She’d failed her country.

She’d failed Hal.

She’d failed herself.

It’s easier to feel nothing, Hal had told her once, a strange kind of wistfulness in his eyes. Now she understood so perfectly why he’d become the Reaper of Vesria. How she wished she could cut out her every emotion, to sink into oblivion. But even now, she couldn’t harden herself to suffering. She’d never been able to, and maybe she never would. This sorrow and pain at the core of her—it gave her purpose. It gave her strength. No, she couldn’t let herself sink any deeper. She’d made a promise to Hal that she’d save his life.

I believe you, he’d said, with more trust and affection than she thought she’d ever deserve.

Now she had to believe in herself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The road to the royal palace was paved with people. Crowds jeered and hissed as the Guard’s carriages rolled over the slush-slick cobblestones. Wren was grateful she couldn’t make out what they were saying over the clatter of the wheels and the clop of hooves. Through the foggy windows, their faces were contorted and gore-red with cold and a terrifying, ravenous hunger. This wasn’t a celebration, despite the market stalls doling out hot rice milk and pickled oysters. This was a spectacle.

It was fitting. Today marked the first time Isabel had opened the palace gates since she surrendered the war a year ago. Hal Cavendish’s trial, so long anticipated, warranted a setting to match its breathless gravity. Wren’s stomach hadn’t stopped turning since she’d first received the summons. All members of the Queen’s Guard were required to attend.