“Think,” the prince said gently, and again Nina found herself leaning forward, wondering. His voice sounded rough, different. As if the vocal cords had been hastily altered. “Remember that the men you once called loyal no longer wish to serve you. Your friend Redvin was found dead in the ruined eastern tower. Your drüskelle are in shambles. Is this the time you want your honesty called into question?”

Brum did not give any ground. “I have served Fjerda with honor.”

“You have served Fjerda long enough.”

Brum laughed. “I see. You think the Ravkans will keep to this peace, Your Highness?”

“I do,” said Prince Rasmus. “And even if I didn’t, it is no longer a matter that concerns you.”

“Your health—”

“My health has never been better.”

Nina hesitated, then said, “All this talk of poison today.”

A hush fell.

“Yes,” said Rasmus slowly. “A curious thing. I’ve been guarded by drüskelle since I was a child.”

Now Brum looked genuinely frightened. As far as Nina knew, he had never resorted to poison. He’d thought the prince’s poor health would do the work for him. But could he prove that?

“If you have evidence of such rank treason,” Brum said, “I demand it be presented. I will not have my honor besmirched.”

“I know this has been a day of tragedy for you,” the prince said. “Of terrible loss. You need a time of rest and quiet contemplation. Perhaps on Kenst Hjerte.”

“That is exile,” Brum said, his voice low and determined. “You cannot mean to—”

“‘Cannot’ is a word unfamiliar to princes.”

“Your Highness,” Brum tried, making his voice warm, appealing. “This is a misunderstanding and nothing more.”

The prince gestured to his guards. “Take him to his cabin and keep him under guard. But be kind to him. He is … he is what this country made him.”

Before the guards could take hold of Brum, he had a gun in his hands, pointed at the crown prince.

“No!” Nina cried.

“Strymacht Fjerda!” Brum shouted.

Gunshots—one, two, three, whipcrack loud.

Brum never had a chance to fire. He was on the ground, bleeding. Joran reholstered his weapon. He’d shot Brum three times—once in the leg, twice in the arm.

The prince moved forward, but Nina seized him by the elbow. “Don’t. He’ll be all right.”

Rasmus’ eyes met hers, not quite the blue they had been. “Get a medic!” he called, holding her gaze. “This poor man needs help.”

Medics and soldiers rushed forward. “We should let him die,” said one, spitting on the ground by Brum’s body. “He tried to kill you, Your Highness.”

“I have no doubt he meant to turn the gun on himself. He lost his only daughter today.” Rasmus paused. “Mila, you knew her well. You were Hanne’s dearest friend, were you not?”

“I loved her,” said Nina, stubborn, terrible hope clawing at her heart. “I love her still.”