“I am a soldier,” she said. “I’ve been a soldier since I was a child. Would you have a girl who has spent her life down in the trenches of battle wear a crown? Will you have a soldier queen?”

It was Pensky, general of the First Army, who stepped forward. They had been forced to work together since Nikolai had taken the throne. He’d never particularly liked Zoya, but she hoped he respected her.

He straightened his jacket, stroked his voluminous white mustache. “Better a queen who knows the cost of battle. I will have a soldier queen.”

Zoya kept herself to a short, dignified nod, showing the barest fraction of the gratitude she felt. Cold sweat had coated her body, but she forced herself to continue.

“I am a Squaller, a Grisha.” She cast a disdainful glance at Brum. “Some of our enemies will call me witch. And some of our own people will agree. Will you have a Grisha queen?”

“It’s true,” said the old duke from Grevyakin, whom she and Nikolai had visited with months ago. She’d been miserable through the whole evening, but now she was glad she’d managed to stay awake and civil. “Some will despise you. Others will call you Saint. I want to farm my land and see my children safe. I will bow to a Grisha queen if it will bring peace.”

Again she nodded, as if she had expected nothing less, as if her heart didn’t feel like it was about to hummingbird straight through her chest. Zoya paused. She understood the risk she was about to take, but the crown would be nothing but an unwanted weight if she didn’t. She knew the toll speculation around his birth had taken on Nikolai. She couldn’t attempt to rule that way. And she didn’t want to be the girl who hid any longer. We see you, daughter.

Zoya took a deep breath. “My father’s name was Suhm Nabri, and I am his only daughter. Will you have a Suli queen?”

A murmur of consternation and confusion rose from the crowd, but Zoya didn’t lower her chin. She met their gazes one by one. Some of them had probably had their servants chase Suli off their land, or maybe they’d hired them for their parties and never thought twice about them again. Others sent old clothes to Suli caravans and slept better that night, soothed by their show of generosity, while others praised the beauty of Suli women and children and patted themselves on the back for their open-mindedness. But maybe some of them knew they had Suli blood in their own families, and maybe a few would admit that the Suli had roamed this country before it had ever been called Ravka.