They passed over the bridge and onto the Gersky Prospect, where couples strolled in the park and nannies pushed children in prams. This place couldn’t have seemed farther from the muddy battlefield they’d left behind. And yet, if they’d failed at Nezkii or Ulensk, Fjerdan tanks would be rolling toward these grand thoroughfares and green parks right now.

The palace gates emblazoned with the gold double eagle opened to them, and only when they clanged shut did Nikolai let himself breathe a sigh of relief. There were times when he’d resented these manicured grounds, the many-tiered wedding cake of terraces and gilding that was the Grand Palace. He’d been embarrassed by its excesses and exhausted by its demands. But the last time he’d ridden out, it had been no sure thing he would return. He was grateful to be alive, grateful his most trusted friends were safe, grateful for the cold winter air and the crunch of gravel beneath his horse’s hooves.

When they reached the palace steps, a group of servants approached to take their horses. “Rostik,” he said, greeting the groom. “How are my favorite members of the royal household?”

The groom smiled. “Avetoy was favoring one of his back legs last week, but we got him healed up right. Did Punchline do his best for you?”

Nikolai gave the horse a fond pat. “I think he’s rather majestic in this light.”

He heard a loud pop, like a cork being loosed from a bottle, then another. A shout from somewhere inside the palace.

“Gunshots!” said Tamar.

Nikolai shoved the groom behind him and drew one of his revolvers.

“Stay down,” he told Rostik.

Tolya and Tamar moved to flank him, and Zoya’s arms were already raised in combat stance. The royal guards arrayed themselves at the base of the stairs.

“Nikolai,” said Tolya, “we need to get you out of here. There are flyers moored at the lake.”

But Nikolai had no intention of running. “Someone is in my house, Tolya. They’re shooting at my people.”

“Your Highness—”

“All Saints,” Zoya gasped.

The Tavgharad flooded onto the steps, fanning out in a fighting formation.

There were eleven of them, all women, wearing black uniforms marked by carnelian falcons. Two of them had taken rifles from palace guards, but even unarmed, they were some of the deadliest soldiers in the world.

“Ehri, what are you doing?” Nikolai asked carefully.

Princess Ehri Kir-Taban stood at the center of their formation in a green velvet gown and coat—traveling clothes. This was not another assassination attempt. It was something else entirely.

Ehri’s pointed chin lifted high. “Nikolai Lantsov, we will be your captives no longer.”

“So the courtship is going well?” Zoya muttered.

“I see,” said Nikolai slowly. “Where is it you plan to go?”

“Home,” she declared.

“And how did your friends get free?”