The prince himself was mostly what Nikolai had expected based on intelligence reports—young, of about average height for a Fjerdan. His eyes were bright and there was a nervous energy radiating from him, but that was to be expected of an inexperienced leader when the stakes were so high.

Brum looked nothing but calm, despite the defeat and near mutiny he’d suffered. This would be his attempt to resurrect his reputation and take control once more. He was flanked by drüskelle.

“He brought his wolf pups,” Nikolai noted in some surprise.

“He wants to show he still has command,” said Zoya. “He must have chosen them carefully. A calculated risk.”

“He should have checked his math. They only have eyes for my general.”

And who could blame them? Grisha were enlivened by their power. It fed them, extended their lives. Zoya’s face was still flushed. Her hair framed her face in thick black waves, slightly damp from the sea mist. The armor she wore was less like battle gear than a clinging skin of glittering scales. She didn’t look like a Grisha, or a military commander, or even quite human.

What must they make of us? he wondered as he and Zoya took their places gazing up at the seated noblemen and diplomats, surrounded on all sides. The demon and the dragon. At least Nikolai had the grace to put on proper clothes.

The people trailing Brum were like a punch to the gut. His father. His mother. And the man Nikolai instantly knew to be Vadik Demidov.

“He looks just like the old king,” whispered Zoya.

“A tragedy for everyone involved,” Nikolai replied. But it hurt to see Demidov flanked by his parents.

Nikolai had known it was likely the Fjerdans would involve his mother and father—or the man he’d once believed to be his father—and the Kerch had made it possible. Yet seeing them here was still hard to accept. He could feel his father’s contempt from across the chamber, see it in the bitter lines of his haggard face. His mother looked frail and tired, and he wondered if she wanted to be here to speak against him or if she had been coerced. Perhaps that was wishful thinking, the hope of a wayward son who had exiled his own parents. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Is this where all of it ends? He’d asked that question more than once over the last few days. He looked around the room at the Fjerdan delegates, the Ravkan noblemen, and the Kerch and Zemeni ambassadors stationed in Os Kervo who had joined the summit as mediators. The Apparat and his Priestguard had made their way here too, though they hadn’t arrived with the Fjerdans and they stood high up in the gallery. The priest’s face looked bruised.