Nina thrashed in his arms, tried to bite his fingers.

Brum only squeezed tighter, startled by her strength. “You will not say such things.”

Nina couldn’t breathe. She looked into Brum’s hateful eyes, his pupils like pinpricks, and she knew then what a coward he was. He’d lost control of his drüskelle on the battlefield. The invasion had collapsed. He was desperately hanging on to his position and couldn’t afford any hint of treason. Even with his daughter dead at his feet.

Nina stopped moving. Slowly, cautiously, Brum released her.

“You know he did this,” she said plainly. “You know what he is.” And Nina had known too, but she’d let Hanne face him alone. Had Hanne admitted she was Grisha? Had she rejected his proposal? Stung his pride? Or had he simply wanted to hurt Brum and show that he was the one who truly held the power?

Ylva let loose a broken moan. “I never should have let her go with him. I never should have let her enter Heartwood.”

Nina knelt and threw her arms around Hanne’s mother. She could feel sobs shaking both of their bodies.

“I will kill him,” Nina said. “I swear it.”

“That won’t bring her back.”

Nina didn’t care. She’d lost too much. She had spared Joran. She had begged Zoya to spare Fjerda’s soldiers. Mercy, mercy, always mercy. But what good was mercy when the world took the best people from it? Matthias gone. Hanne gone.

Save some mercy for my people.

Maybe the Fjerdans deserved forgiveness, but their leaders—Brum, this monster prince—did not. She and Hanne had dared to dream of a new world, but they’d put their trust in the wrong people.

A clarion horn rang out over the deck. The prince was coming.

“Mila, you must control yourself,” Ylva pleaded. “There may be an explanation.”

“He killed her, Ylva. I know it and so do you.”

A hand gripped the back of Nina’s neck hard.

“You will be silent or I will silence you,” Brum snarled.

Nina stood, breaking Brum’s hold. The wild hysteria that had gripped her was gone, and only fury remained. She met his gaze and Jarl Brum—commander of the drüskelle, architect of torture, Fjerda’s scythe—took a step back.

She knew she was at risk of blowing her cover. She knew that Mila—sweet, meek, doting Mila—would never dare look Brum in the eye, would never show him this clean, unclouded glimpse of her rage.

“You are a coward,” she said, her voice low in her throat. It was an animal growl. She spoke for Matthias, for Joran, for Hanne, for the Grisha, for everyone whose roots had been forced to drink the poison of this man’s hate. “You are the lowest form of man. Without honor, without integrity. Djel djeren je töp.” Djel turns his back on you.

“Mila!” Ylva gasped.