A muscle works in his jaw. Although his expression is hard, there’s a wounded look in his eyes. His sister’s betrayal cuts deep. But will he betray her in turn? I can’t claim to understand how difficult this must be for him. Despite everything she’s done, he must still love her.

“The news needs to come from you. As Evewyn’s prince, you might be able to convince the other leaders that your people aren’t their enemy. But if you won’t do it, then I will.”

I turn on my heel only to jolt back again. A small knife pierces the shore shy of where my foot would have been.

A man with ribbons in his braids emerges from the trees, along with four others. I recognize them as the music troupe from only a few hours ago. In place of instruments, their hands grip swords. One wears a belt lined with small throwing knives.

Eyebrow Tattoos might not have run in this direction at random. I silently curse myself for leaving my weapons in my satchel, which is back in the market with my drake.

How long before Prince Meilek’s Blades come searching for him? As Prince Meilek and I shift closer to each other, a sixth figure breaks from the trees. In the dark, I don’t immediately recognize him. But when I do, my stomach clenches in renewed fury.

“Jonyah,” I hiss.

Thick scars marble much of his face, the flesh shiny and taut. His head has been shaved, but the fuzz of new growth stops above his temple. The scars continue down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.

“Sirscha, Sirscha. That’s twice now I’ve sneaked up on you.” The fire destroyed his lips, slurring his words. “Are you sure Kendara trained you?” His physical appearance is all that’s changed. He still walks with a swagger, still puffs out his chest to emphasize his size.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Prince Meilek asks. The cool edge to his voice makes me shiver.

But Jonyah’s flinty eyes pass over him, dismissive. His instincts were never very sharp. “Keep quiet, Your Highness. This doesn’t concern you.”

“You will lower your weapons at once.”

“My orders come from someone above you, so no.” Jonyah stomps down into the strip of patchy grass that lies between the trees and the bank of the stream. His large boots make a squelching sound, crushing the water reeds that push through the mud. Gesturing to his face, he asks me, “What do you think? It was the best the healers could do without magic, but I kind of like it.”

He’s not looking for sympathy. He wants fear.

“I think your soul hasn’t changed much, still shriveled and foul, like a ripe plum left in the sun to rot.”