“Commander Ricci has maps. Some of these women come from boat families. Even if they can’t read a map, I can show them. They’ll know how to operate the ship.” He rubbed his hand down her back. “And as for negotiating, they won’t need a man for that. They’ll want to speak for themselves.”

Serina’s throat closed as emotions swirled through her. “Yes, of course,” she said, her voice thick. “They will want to speak for themselves.”

For some time, they walked in silence.

Eventually, the prison complex rose before them, gray and imposing. Serina could still sense echoes of the terror she’d felt when she’d hiked up the uneven trail from the pier for the first time, this iron-barred monstrosity looming over her.

Her gaze shifted to the water, blue and sparkling, stretching out to the horizon. From here, she could just see the corner of the pier, and out beyond it—

“Val.” She gasped, skidding to a stop. Her injured ankle screamed. Her stomach dropped.

She couldn’t breathe.

She pointed, her hand trembling. “Val, a boat.”

TWO

NOMI

NOMI STOOD ON the boat’s heaving deck, her heavy golden gown streaked with blood, and cried as the dark shadow of Mount Ruin rose before her. This wasn’t the triumphant mission to save her sister that she’d envisioned. Nomi was heading for her own small cell, her own imprisonment. Asa had promised Nomi he’d reunite her with Serina, but she’d never imagined it would be like this. Not until she’d watched Asa slice his blade across his father’s throat.

Maris, Nomi’s fellow Grace, had seen it too, unfortunately. So Asa had sent them both away as prisoners, all so he could maintain the illusion that his older brother, the Heir, was the real murderer. A few feet in front of Nomi, Maris sagged against the gunwale, her straight black hair a snarl, her red dress soaked with sea spray. She slumped over the edge and stared into the water rushing by. Maybe she would have jumped overboard if her wrists hadn’t been shackled to the boat. She hadn’t said anything for a long time.

Nomi opened her mouth to offer something—a reassurance, another apology—but the wind stole her breath. Maybe it knew all she had were empty words.

They were close to Mount Ruin now, close enough to see the chipped concrete pier. Nomi swallowed a gulp of sea-soaked air.

The sailors moved to the bow of the boat, where Malachi lay. The Heir was a crumpled shadow on the deck, his burgundy velvet coat stained with his own blood and the blood of his father, the Superior. Asa had killed the Superior and tried to kill Malachi too.

All because Nomi had trusted Asa, had believed he would make a better Heir, a better Superior. She’d been wrong.

The sailors bent over Malachi’s still form.