As always, there was a part of her that wanted so desperately to believe him. But—

“Even if that was true, it doesn’t change anything else you’ve done,” she said. “The lives you took yourself and the lives that were taken on your orders. I have nothing left to say to you, Hesod. When this is over and you are tried for your crimes, I wish you all the fairness and justice you granted the villagers of Delan.”

She shoved her chair back, wood screeching against the stone floor, and got to her feet. The movement jostled the table, and the candle flame finally sputtered and died, leaving nothing but the cold blue light of the wall sconces in its wake. It gave Crier the sudden impression of being plunged underwater. Of being drowned.

“You don’t understand what I’m offering you, my daughter,” said Hesod. He was a black shape in the watery darkness, a shadow swathed in shadows. “You have always wanted to be sovereign. I know that hasn’t changed. If you ally yourself with me now, I will forgive you for running away. I will forgive you for betraying me and breaking your promise to the Scyre. I will forgive you for angering him and turning him against us. With me at your side, you could be a glorious ruler. I want to be by your side. Will you let me, daughter? I will forgive you for the choices you made. Will you forgive me for mine?”

Crier paused with one hand on the doorknob. She looked back at him, eyes adjusted to the dim light, and studied the lines of his face one last time. Then:

“I don’t know if any of us can be forgiven,” she said, and left the room.

Her feet took her first to her own bedroom. To her writing desk. Eons ago, in the days leading up to her wedding, her father had given her a golden key. It was the key to what he called his trophy room: the room where he kept all the human artifacts he’d collected over the years. Sacred objects, ancient books, relics of the War of Kinds. Sickened by the idea of it, Crier had tucked the golden key away in the drawer of her writing desk. Now, she was ready to use it.

Down one winding hall. Another. There, the door. Key in the lock. A click, and the trophy room door opened soundlessly beneath her touch. She stepped inside. The silence of this room was a physical presence. Like cotton stuffed into her ears. The door swung shut behind her, and Crier was alone.

And furious.

She had never been this angry in her life. Not when she’d realized Kinok was blackmailing her. Not when her father had given the council seat to Kinok. Not when she’d learned Queen Junn had murdered Reyka. Not when she’d run away from the palace. Not when she’d seen those bodies in the Iron Heart, seen their blood oozing slowly into the black stone vessels, realized what was happening. Not even when Kinok had pointed his sword at Ayla’s throat. So many times in Crier’s life, her dominant emotion had been fear. I am Flawed, she’d thought, and she had been afraid. Kinok is plotting something, she’d thought, and she had been afraid. I will never have a say in my nation’s future, she’d thought. Reyka is missing and nobody else seems to care. ARM is growing dangerous. I don’t want to marry Kinok. Ayla wanted to hurt me. My father never cared about me. I don’t know how to stop Kinok. I don’t know how to save anyone. I don’t know how to save myself.