“THEY’RE THE HEIR’S forces, right?” Serina asked, her hands tightening on the railing. She and Val had taken over the corner where Maris and Helena had been keeping watch. “Unless he snuck in through the tunnels.”

Val craned to get a better look. There were troops numbering in the hundreds, maybe a thousand, some lined up along the lawn leading to the palazzo, others still in boats spanning the canal. One of the women from Jungle Camp had snuck through the palazzo to investigate the docks on the ocean side, only to find more troops there. They were surrounded.

“It looks like they’re waiting for orders,” Val replied. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Although, if they’re waiting for Asa to give them…”

Across the canal, the piazza was empty. None of the vendors had appeared with their carts, but Serina saw many faces at the windows of surrounding buildings. People were staying out of the way of the soldiers. They were waiting too.

“If they’re Asa’s, we’ll have to protect the Heir,” she said. “As long as we can.”

Val turned fully toward her and slipped his arms around her. “Until the end,” he agreed.

She leaned against his chest and listened to the beating of his heart. It was so surreal, standing here on this balcony in the palazzo with him. Being here was all she’d wanted as a prospective Grace. But now, as Grace of Mount Ruin, it felt uncomfortable and strange, like a dress she’d outgrown.

“I am happy I am not a Grace,” she murmured. “But I do prefer embroidering fabric to sewing up flesh. That I miss.”

“The fairy tale still calls to you,” he quipped.

With a little laugh, she lifted up on her toes to kiss him. “And the handsome prince.”

He kissed her back, igniting tiny hungry flames in her belly. Her hands wound through his hair.

“If you were in a fairy tale,” he said, “there’d be no time to embroider or gallivant with the prince. You’d be too busy.” His lips nipped at her smile. “A princess leading an army.”

“How about a queen?”

Serina started at the sound of Nomi’s voice and pulled out of Val’s arms.

Her sister stood a few feet away. Her loose black pants and linen shirt hung in an elegant drape from shoulder and hip. Her braid curled over one shoulder. For the first time that Serina could remember, Nomi looked serene. Genuinely at peace, without a hint of fire behind her eyes. She really looked like a Grace.

“What are you talking about?” Serina asked, alarmed. Had killing Asa torn her sister from reality? And where was Malachi?

“The regiment outside is Malachi’s,” Nomi said. “They are men loyal to him, led by his closest friend.”