Nikolai had no reason to be. And yet he was. Maybe the darkness inside him had once belonged to the Darkling, a demon born of his enemy’s power. But they’d begun to make their peace when they’d faced each other in the thorn wood. It was his monster now.

“I’m sure,” Nikolai said. “If I weren’t, I think you know I’d never let myself lead an army.”

Adrik eyed him speculatively. “I’m still on your side, Korol Rezni. For now. After the war, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll be killed in action and I won’t have to worry about it.”

“That’s the Adrik I know.”

Adrik shrugged, his gloom descending over him like a well-worn cloak. “This country’s always been cursed,” he said as he headed toward the labs. “Maybe it deserves a cursed king.”

“He’ll come around,” said Zoya, approaching with a stack of correspondence in her hands. “Reports from our commanders. Speculation from our scouts about where and when the Fjerdans will attack.”

It was hard to be grateful for a war, but he was glad that he and Zoya had plenty to talk about that wasn’t what he’d said on the airship. Would he unsay it, if he could? He hated the skittishness he sensed in her, the way she seemed to be keeping her distance. But war was unpredictable. He might not survive the fight to come. He couldn’t be sorry for speaking his heart, or at least some part of it.

“Where would you put your money?” he asked.

Zoya considered. “The permafrost. It’s perfect terrain for Fjerdan tanks, and the cloud cover hurts our flyers.”

“Not Arkesk?”

“It would make sense for the Fjerdans except for the little matter of Sturmhond’s blockade. They won’t get any support from the sea. Besides, we know they’re in secret talks with West Ravka. You think they’ll invade on western soil anyway?”

“Maybe,” said Nikolai. If the talks were a sham, Fjerda might do just that. Arkesk was closer to the Fjerdan capital, and its rocky topography was rough but manageable. “The trees would slow them down. That could work to our advantage.”

“Saints’ teeth,” Zoya swore.

Nikolai looked up and saw Count Kirigin bustling toward them in a remarkable orchid coat and breeches.

“So sorry to interrupt, but there’s been a disturbance at the gate. There’s a man asking to see the king.”

Nikolai frowned. The Cormorant had flown directly to Lazlayon under cover of mist. There was no reason for anyone to think he was visiting Kirigin’s estate.

“Who is he?” Zoya asked.

“No idea,” said Kirigin. “He’s a bit of a mess. You might mistake him for a pile of rags. I can have the guards send him packing.”