“You know my heritage,” Niklas continued, gripping Ren's hand in both of his own. “My father was a high-ranking general, a friend of King Halvard. He'll listen to me and I can vouch for you. Surely, he'll at least listen.”

Breath catching in his throat, Ren yanked his hands free of Niklas' grasp and took a step back. “What are you saying?” he asked, staring at Niklas. “You really want me to bow to the man who slaughtered my family? It was your family, too,” Ren rasped.

“The Lowlander killed your family.”

“And you honestly think Halvard will just let Thais grow up and then politely pass the throne to him? That's not going to happen. Halvard will slaughter him like he slaughtered Hellic,” Ren said, the sharpness of his voice making the guards stationed on the battlements across the courtyard turn and stare.

“You don't know that!” Niklas said. “We can make a deal. I'm sure he'll be reasonable. Halvard came to my chambers and spoke to me before I left Aleria. He told me amazing stories about my parents, he really respected them, Ren. We can at least try, I just don't want you to die,” Niklas said, his voice trembling. His eyes were red-rimmed.

Ren's heart raced. He couldn't believe this. Niklas was suggesting surrendering their entire country to the Skarlan king exactly as Lord Tyke had done. Niklas and Halvard had shared a private, friendly conversation in Niklas' chambers and Niklas had listened. Shaking his head, he spun on his heel. This was too much. He needed to get away, he needed to think, to salvage the little bits of truth he still had left. He heard Niklas calling out his name, but didn't stop. His feet carried him along the battlements, through a tower door and down a flight of stairs.

Finding himself in a dark work room, he stumbled to a halt.

Lord Tyke stood bent over a dust-covered desk, scribbling away on a piece of curling letter paper in the light of a single candle. At the sound of Ren's boots against the steps, he looked up, snatched the letter and folded it closed. “This place is private. Get out,” Lord Tyke said, voice strained as he glared at Ren.

“Who are you writing to?” Ren asked, all his frustration and hopelessness focused into a bitter ball of resentment.

“It's none of your business, boy. Get out,” his uncle spat, face reddening.

In an instant, Ren drew his sword. He held it steadily, point aimed at Tyke. “Show me the letter,” he said, voice harder than he had known it capable.

“How dare you draw your sword on your own uncle, you rat?” Lord Tyke spluttered.

Ren stepped forward, silencing the older man by pressing the tip of his sword against his throat. Slowly, Lord Tyke brought his hand forward and held out the piece of paper, face red with anger.