“Don’t!” cried Nina.

The prince struck Joran again.

Joran didn’t flinch, but Nina could see two angry red welts on the guard’s cheek.

“Does it hurt?” the prince asked. His voice was eager, like someone watching a friend swallow a spoonful of custard and asking, Is it good?

Joran held the prince’s gaze. “It does.”

The prince held out the crop. “Hit me, Joran.”

Joran did nothing. He wouldn’t fight back, wouldn’t stop the prince, because it was his sacred duty to serve Rasmus, because to strike a prince was a death sentence. Rasmus had been snide, petulant, even spiteful—but this was something deep and ugly. It was Fjerda’s poison in his veins.

The crop made a whoosh as it cut through the air again, then smacked against Joran’s cheek.

“Go get your father,” Nina whispered to Hanne. “Hurry.”

Hanne bolted from the tent, but Rasmus didn’t seem to notice.

“Hit me,” the prince demanded. He giggled, a bright, happy sound. “He wants to, my god how he wants to. Now Joran feels something. He feels rage. Don’t you, Joran?”

“No, Your Highness.”

But there was anger in Joran’s eyes; shame too. Prince Rasmus had made the exchange. He’d traded his humiliation for Joran’s. The guard’s cheek was bleeding.

Was this who the crown prince really was? She had thought he was a sickly boy with a good heart. Curse all the Saints, maybe she’d wanted to believe he was like Matthias. Another boy brutalized by Fjerda’s traditions and Brum’s hate. But Matthias had never been cruel. Nothing had been able to corrupt the honor in his mighty heart.

“Brum is coming,” Nina said, her voice low. She couldn’t afford to compromise her cover, but she couldn’t let this go on. “You will not want him to find you with a crop in your hand.”

Rasmus’ glance was speculative, as if he was wondering what might happen if Brum confronted him. Joran was Brum’s drüskelle. But Rasmus was a prince.

Then it was as if a spell had broken. He shrugged and tossed the crop aside. “I’m going to join my mother. Clean yourself up,” he told Joran.

He strode past Nina as if nothing had happened. “Tell Hanne I expect to see her at the ball later.”

“Joran,” Nina began when the prince had gone.

He had taken out a handkerchief and pressed it to his cheek. “Don’t let Commander Brum see me this way,” he said.

“But—”

“It will only make trouble for the commander. For everyone. I’ll be fine. Please.”

He remained composed, a soldier, but his blue eyes were pleading.

“All right,” she said.

She turned her back on him and left the tent, scanning the crowd. She caught sight of Hanne speaking to Brum.