“Stay here,” Crier ordered Faye. The guards outside Crier’s door looked surprised, as much as they ever looked anything. Crier pictured herself: dressed for her own wedding, face a rictus of horror and . . . anger, she realized. She was angry. She drew herself up to her full height. “Take me to my father.”

“Lady Cr—”

“I said, take me to my father,” she repeated, voice hard. “Question me one more time. I dare you.”

Without a word, they led her through the long corridors toward the north wing, to her father’s quarters. Crier tried to calm down. If she seemed at all upset, her father would dismiss her as a child throwing a tantrum; he wouldn’t hear a word she said. She had to be completely rational.

Her eyes darted over the tapestries on the hallway walls, the scenes from her people’s history: so much imagery from the War of Kinds, always triumphant, a crush of subservient human bodies bowing down to the superior Automae, right there on the battlefield. Crier had grown up surrounded by these images, never really questioning them. She’d read so many books on human history, written so many essays advocating for better treatment of humankind, but she’d never even thought about the war scenes on the walls of her own home. Wars were won by whichever side caused the most suffering. How was that something to be proud of?

Now, a new war. Gathering like shadows as night began to fall. Kinok and ARM versus . . . everyone. A level of suffering Crier couldn’t even begin to imagine.

They reached her father’s rooms, where more guards were stationed outside his bedchamber. Crier ignored the suspicious looks they gave her and cried out, “Father!”

When Hesod opened the door, he did not look pleased. It looked like he’d been about to leave for the ballroom to make his appearances with the guests; he was dressed in deep red, forehead adorned with a thin band of gold Crier had only seen him wear a couple times before. His red robes were already pinned around his shoulders, the crest of Family Hesod at his throat; he looked less like her father and more like the sovereign than ever before. “Get inside,” he said, clipped, and the moment the door closed behind Crier, he rounded on her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Father—”

“Your wedding is in less than an hour,” he said. “You should be at the ballroom. What in all hells are you doing here?”

Crier flinched. She’d never heard her father curse before. “Father, I have to tell you something. Please don’t send me away. Please listen.” As quickly as possible while still sounding calm and rational and anything other than terrified, she told him what she’d learned, careful to leave out any mention of Faye. She kept waiting for his outrage, but his expression remained blank. “Father,” she said when she finished and he still hadn’t responded. “Father, don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”