Sturmhond’s blockade hadn’t broken at all. It had deliberately given way, opening the door to the trap and letting Fjerda’s navy sail through. That was what the Ravkans had been waiting for.

The lightning stopped, leaving the sky clear but for a few clouds. Zoya and her Squallers were done speaking.

The observation tower had gone silent as the officers stared at what was left of their sea invasion, the bodies of their men bobbing in the gentle waves lapping the Ravkan shore, their war machines slumped like shipwreck hulls, some slowly sinking into the sea.

Ylva had her hands clapped over her mouth. Her eyes were full of tears. Nina wondered what Hanne was feeling, watching this destruction beside the prince.

Nina couldn’t celebrate the deaths of soldiers, most of whom had little choice in when they marched or what kind of war they waged. But she thought of the winter ball, of the joyful toasts, how readily Fjerda had celebrated the eve of what they believed would be another nation’s destruction.

This was war. Not parades and boasts but blood and sacrifice, and Ravka would not go quietly.

“We are lost,” Ylva whispered. “So many dead in an instant.”

“Shut your mouth,” Redvin snarled. “This is why women don’t belong near the battlefield.”

A woman just shoved your “taste of victory” right down your throat, Nina thought with satisfaction.

“This is nothing,” Redvin continued, slicing his hand through the air, addressing the officers now. “This offensive was insurance. The Ravkans have a nightmare waiting for them on the northern front that they’ll never recover from.”

“More tanks?” Nina said, putting a hopeful tremor in her voice.

Redvin laughed, and the sound raised the hair on Nina’s arms. “Oh no, little girl. A weapon like nothing this world has ever seen. And the royal whelp helped create it.”

“Prince Rasmus?” Her surprise was real.

“Yes, he’s more bloodthirsty than any of us could have hoped. Got the idea at the opera, if you please.”