Joran looked out at the dancers whirling on the floor. “You’re angry because of … because of his behavior toward you.”

“I am,” Nina said, maybe the truest words she’d ever spoken in the Ice Court. “But you’ve begun to wonder too. What if Brum is wrong?”

“About what?”

Nina kept her voice even, conversational. “The Grisha. Djel. The way war should be waged. All of it.”

Joran’s face went ashen. “Then there is no hope for me.”

“Not even among the Saints?”

“No,” he said, his voice flat. “The Saints don’t want a soul like mine.”

Nina rose and went to him. There had to be a way to reach this boy. With the right prodding, he might even give up the secrets of Fjerda’s new weapon. “All soldiers kill. And no soldier can say each death is righteous.”

Joran turned, and Nina drew in a breath at the bleakness in his eyes. He looked like a man who had stopped searching for answers. He was alone on the ice and his heart was howling.

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“You might be surprised.” She had done her fair share of killing.

“I murdered an unarmed man.”

And Nina had let a horde of undead women tear the Wellmother to pieces. “Maybe so, but—”

Joran seized her arm. “He was my brother. He was a traitor. I shot him and left him to die in a foreign city. I—”

My brother. A traitor.

“Be silent,” she gasped. Whatever Joran was going to say, she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to know.

But Joran wouldn’t stop. “He told me … He said there was so much in the world that I didn’t have to be afraid of, if I would only open my eyes. And I did.” His voice broke. “And I am afraid of everything.”

The drüskelle had been in Ketterdam for the auction. They’d put a price on Matthias’ head. Nina felt like she was falling. She was kneeling on the cobblestones, watching the light fade from Matthias’ beautiful eyes. She was holding him, trying to keep him with her. He was dying in her arms.

“You should be afraid,” Nina growled, shoving Joran into the shadows of the alcove, away from the eyes of the crowd. He was too startled to fight her, and in the next breath, she had the sharpened tip of a bone dart hovering above his jugular. “You should tremble in your bed and weep like the base coward you are. You are the man who killed Matthias Helvar. Say it.”

His eyes were wide, confused. “I … Who are you?”

“Say it. I want your confession before I end your worthless life.”

“Mila?”

Hanne’s voice. She sounded so far away.

“What is this?” asked the prince.