“And you are so very naïve. What did you believe you could do? You have no training in diplomacy or politics, no grace. You have nothing of my sister in you, and you tarnish her legacy.” Her silver eyes flashed like steel. “She was a brilliant strategist, a fierce warrior—beloved by her people and feared by her enemies. Your no-name father was her one mistake. It was he who got her killed in the war. A descendant of the Goddess—a queen—throwing away her life to protect a man who grew up in a bar. I cannot fathom it.”

Tears stung the backs of Wren’s eyes—but no. No. She would not cry. She would not give Isabel the satisfaction, the power, of hurting her again.

Isabel only sighed as she opened a drawer on her desk and retrieved a silver case full of matches. She struck one, and the firelight gilded the sheer outer layer of her dress, glimmered on every silver ring and diamond on her throat.

“I see him when I look at you.” Isabel lit a candelabra on her desk. As each flame sprang to life, the shadows deepened beneath her eyes. “His hair. His eyes. His insolence. And yet my sister gave you her name, and you carry it as if you deserve it. You dare to come before me as if you are fit to carry out the work of a princess. You are not.”

Still, Wren said nothing.

“Now,” Isabel said. She blew out the match, its heat still shimmering like a veil over her face. “Shall I arrange for your Severance or will you accept your new assignment?”

It wasn’t an option to refuse the assignment. She only wanted to hear the admission of defeat. And even if Wren did refuse for the sake of her pride, she’d sentence herself to a life without magic, a life half lived and entirely wasted. Without it, she would never be anything. She would never be worthy of love.

“I accept.”

“Good.” Isabel stretched out her hand. “Give me the letter.”

“No,” Wren whispered.

“I will not ask again.”

Wren slammed it onto the desk. Isabel dipped its edge into the flame of the candles flickering at her side. As the envelope withered and blackened, Isabel dropped it into a metal bowl. There went all Wren’s hope, crumbled to ashes.

“That will be all.” Isabel was barely audible, her words borne up and away in the writhing smoke.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Wren managed to lift her chin and marched out with grim purpose. But in the main hall, the panic she had staved off pounced and crushed her under its weight.