The weight of her military uniform felt heavy and familiar. Still, Wren had almost missed its dour plainness: black tunic and black breeches tucked into perfectly polished black boots. She’d almost forgotten the delightful jangle of her medals and the jaunty sashay of her epaulettes.

“You look far too enthused to be on duty,” Una had said as she pinned Wren’s slouchy, silver-banded cap in place.

“Allow me my moment in the sun.”

Una had only sighed.

But as soon as they stepped through the gates to the North Tower, all her giddiness melted away. She wished she weren’t so bitterly surprised by how easy it was to navigate the Tower’s security when everyone believed them to be the queen’s golden children. Every Guardsman they passed snapped an eager salute.

Una wore her authority easily, her chin held imperiously high and her eyes coldly sweeping over the ranks. Their comrades kept their gazes determinedly disinterested, their backs rigid, but Wren sensed their strain. It was the little things, the stutter of their pulses as Una prowled by, the glitter of sweat in the lanternlight. Everyone on duty was restless and distracted tonight, she noted. All of them felt the pressure of protecting a high-profile prisoner—or perhaps envied their off-duty comrades, who were likely reveling tonight in honor of Hal’s imminent demise.

Wren and Una climbed staircase after staircase, wound-tight helixes that dizzied Wren. Her breaths came harder with nerves and exertion, too loud in the cramped darkness. It was broken only by hazy squares of stained-glass light, reflections of haloed saints and warrior queens. At last, the stairwell emptied into a circular corridor, the outermost layer of a prison laid out like the concentric rings of a tree. At its heart, like the rotten pit of a fruit, was Hal’s cell.

A small contingent of soldiers stood watch at the gate. They were young, as most of the Guard was, but these ones looked particularly green. They radiated the tense, frenetic energy of a puppy learning its first trick, their postures too rigid, their eyes too eager. They would slaver over the prospect of impressing their new captain. It was almost mortifying to remember herself like that, so hungry to please her superiors.

Una strode forward with purposeful confidence. Even the shadows shrank back from her and her lantern’s leaping light. The Guardsman in charge, a boy Wren recognized as Sergeant Wilson, regarded Una with strangled awe. His boots clacked together as he saluted her. “Captain Dryden. What can I do for you?”

“You’re relieved of your post, Sergeant.” She spoke with an icy superiority to rival the queen herself. “Lieutenant Southerland and I have orders from the queen to make preparations for tomorrow.”

“The eyes are a very delicate part of the body,” Wren added gravely. “One that can suffer significant trauma if mishandled. You wouldn’t believe amount of fluid in the eye.”