Hal’s hanged body swinging to the tick, tick, tick of one hundred clocks.

His eyes like gems in her bloody hands.

If she dwelled on it a moment longer, she was going to be sick. Once, she’d dreamed of the day Hal would stand trial for his crimes. Now, she could only wonder at how thoroughly she’d unmade herself, caring for the Reaper of Vesria. She’d always known what they had couldn’t last. She’d tried to protect herself from the pain of losing him, of wanting him when duty would inevitably call him away from her. Time and time again, she’d measured out the distance between them. And just as many times, she’d run headlong toward him.

Her stupid, reckless heart.

If only she could despise him as she was supposed to. It would be far easier to hate him than to feel the way she did for him. And yet, it had been so easy—too easy—to love him. She couldn’t have fought it.

Despite her best efforts, he’d changed her, smeared all her black-and-white beliefs into gray. Now she’d carry him with her forever, a bright, tender flame to keep safe. Even now, she could still feel the warmth of his arms around her, the shyness of his smile against her mouth. Still heard the gentleness of his voice when he spoke to her, the dry wit when he indulged her. Still saw all those hidden, brilliant blues in his eyes—and deeper still, such sadness, such hope.

Hal had let her believe, for the first time in her life, that it was alright to feel passionately, fiercely. And oh, she did. She did. If any feeling would kill her, it was this one. She was in love with Hal Cavendish, and he would never know it.

Wren let out a shaky breath and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t do nothing, no matter how afraid she was. She couldn’t lose him. Every path—try or try not—led to death. It led to war. She might as well go down fighting.

Down two flights of stairs, a door creaked open and jerked Wren out of her thoughts. It admitted a wash of noise from the throne room, fever-pitched jeers and stomping feet. Then it slammed shut, muffling Wren in imperfect silence—until the footsteps began, a staccato, determined beat.

They were coming toward her, but Wren was resigned to her fate. She lifted her eyes. Through the haze of tears and the wayward tendrils of her hair, she saw Una standing on the flight below her. Her face was impassive, as hard as granite, but Wren knew exactly where to look for the fault lines in her military polish. As well as she hid it, Una looked exhausted.

Neither of them spoke. Wren wasn’t sure how they could ever shove off the weight of everything unsaid between them.