Nikolai’s eyes scanned the page. He had hoped they’d have more time. But Nina had at least given them a fighting chance.

“We need to get back to camp. Ride ahead and have them ready two of our flyers,” Nikolai told the messenger, who vanished in a cloud of dust.

“This is it, isn’t it?” asked Zoya.

“Fjerda is on the march. Tamar, you’ll need to get word to David and our Fabrikators, and I’ll send a flyer to our contacts in the west as well.”

“The missiles aren’t usable yet,” said Tamar.

“No,” said Nikolai. “But the Fjerdans aren’t going to wait.” He turned to Zoya. “Hiram Schenck is in Os Kervo. You know what to do. We have only one chance to get this right.”

“Are we ready?” Tolya asked.

“Hardly,” said Tamar. “But we’ll give them hell anyway.”

The demon in Nikolai roused at the thought. War was like fire—sudden, hungry, and easiest to stop before it had taken hold. He would do all he could to contain this blaze. He feared for his country and for himself. He’d be a fool not to. But some part of him, maybe the privateer, maybe the demon, maybe the prince who had clawed his way to the throne, was itching for a fight.

“Think of it as throwing a party,” he said, giving his reins a snap. “When the guests show up, you find out who your real friends are.”

4

NINA

NINA WOKE TO HANNE at her bedside, shaking her arm. Her heart pounded in her chest and she realized her sheets were soaked with sweat. Had she been talking in her sleep? She’d been dreaming of the ice, of Matthias’ wolf. Trassel had been eating from her hand, but when she looked closer, she saw that his white muzzle was covered in blood and that he was feasting on a corpse.

“Someone’s here,” Hanne said. “Someone from the convent.”

Nina sat up, the night air cooling the perspiration on her body. She was instantly awake, and now the thunder in her heart had nothing to do with a muzzy dream. Hanne had been a student at the convent in Gäfvalle, where she and Nina had uncovered Brum’s horrific scheme involving the Springmaidens and a nearby military fort. They’d put a stop to it and rescued the Grisha they could, and Nina had sent the Wellmother to her death with no regrets.

“Who is it?” she whispered, wrapping herself in a high-necked wool robe and cinching it tight. She pushed her feet into her slippers. At least the floors of the White Island were heated.

“I don’t know. My mother sent for both of us.”

“Sweet Djel, put a robe on. Aren’t you freezing?” Hanne was dressed in nothing but her cotton nightgown, the light of the oil lamp in her hand gleaming off the ruddy stubble on her shorn head.