“It’s only incense.” Brum drummed his fingers on the windowsill. “It’s hard to tell what the man really believes. He says the Ravkan king is possessed by demons, that Vadik Demidov was anointed by the Saints themselves to rule.”

“Where did Demidov come from anyway?” Nina said. “I so hope we’ll get to meet him.”

“We keep him safe in case any Ravkan assassins have a mind to take a shot at him.”

Pity that.

“Is he really a Lantsov?” she pushed.

“He has more claim to the crown than that bastard Nikolai.”

The coach jolted to a halt and they descended, but before Nina’s feet had even touched the gravel path, a soldier was running up to Brum, a folded paper in hand. Nina glimpsed the royal seal—silver wax and the crowned Grimjer wolf.

Brum broke the seal and read the note, and when he looked up, his expression made Nina’s stomach sink. Despite his wet clothes and the humiliation he’d suffered at the harbor, he was beaming.

“It’s time,” he said.

Nina saw Ylva smile ruefully. “You’ll be leaving us, then. And I will wait every night with fear in my heart.”

“There is nothing to fear,” Brum said, tucking the paper into his coat pocket. “They cannot stand against us. Finally, our moment has come.”

He was right. The Fjerdans had tanks. They had Grisha captives addicted to parem. Victory was assured. Especially if Ravka was stranded without allies. I should be there. I belong in that fight.

“Will you be traveling far?” Nina asked.

“Not at all,” said Brum. “Mila, you look so frightened! Have you so little faith in me?”

Nina forced herself to smile. “No, sir. I only fear for your safety as we all do. Here,” she said, “let me take your coats so everyone can get inside and be warm. You should have every moment together as a family before Commander Brum leaves.”

“What a blessing you are, Mila,” Ylva said fondly.

Nina took her coat, and Hanne’s, and Brum’s, her hand already snaking into the pocket where he’d placed the note.

War was coming.

She needed to get a message to her king.

3

NIKOLAI

NIKOLAI TRIED TO STEADY his nervous mount with a pat to the horse’s withers. His groom had suggested it wasn’t appropriate for a king to ride out on a horse named Punchline, but Nikolai had a soft spot for the piebald pony with crooked ears. He certainly wasn’t the prettiest horse in the royal stables, but he could run for miles without tiring and he had the steady disposition of a lump of rock. Usually. Right now he could barely keep still, hooves dancing left and right as he tugged at his reins. Punchline didn’t like this place. And Nikolai couldn’t blame him.