Once more, the hunger is right. Dying is better—I’ll never have to see Lucien again. His lost trust, his disappointment in me—I’ll never see it. Malachite and Fione will learn I’m a Heartless from him, I’m sure. I won’t have to see their hurt, betrayed faces, either. I failed Nightsinger. I didn’t stop the war like I promised Y’shennria. I did nothing but let the people in my life down. I failed them all.

And now I die for it.

I close my eyes, a bitter peace washing over me.

The clicking noise of someone’s tongue resounds. “Tut tut. What a mess you’ve made.”

I squint to see through the small gap between the couch and the floor, but suddenly the couch lifts off me, and five pairs of legs in armor reveal themselves as palace guards. They put the couch to one side, the chains yanking me up and contorting my limbs painfully. But at least now I can see who the voice belongs to—Princess Varia in the flesh, her black hair sleek and combed. She no longer wears the dusty traveling robe; a brilliant shimmery purple ensemble hugs her adult curves. She is an adult, isn’t she? I’m so used to looking at her teenage death portrait, I forgot she would’ve aged in the time she was presumed dead. By five years, to be exact. Her dark, lustrous eyes look down on me, a faint smile on her lips as she dismisses the guards.

I have nothing to lose. I lost it all in the clearing.

“Is this your room?” I croak. “Terribly sorry. I’d offer to take the dents out of the floor myself, but I don’t think I’ll be around much longer.”

Varia quirks a brow and clips over to me in high riding boots. “Lucien is resting, in case you care. Malachite and Fione have graciously filled me in on everything that’s transpired. I knew you had to have bravado to even attempt to infiltrate the Vetrisian court, but I didn’t anticipate a sense of humor, too.”

“That’s all right. After seeing what the court has to offer, I wouldn’t anticipate humor, either. Zealotry? For certain. Beauty? In spades. The ability to string two words together and make them funny? Much rarer.”

“True,” Varia agrees, walking around me at a slow clip. “I could hire you as the court’s new laughing boy. But that would be a waste of your…talents.”

That hungry gleam in her eyes returns as she looks me up and down. I’m reminded painfully of my position—far below her. She’s a princess, and I’m a prisoner of war at best. A thing. A body. She could do anything she wanted with me.

I watch her walk over and stroke one of the dolls sitting on the dresser, her delicate finger coming away with dust.