“They already went to war once for me. I’m not going to let it happen again,” I said adamantly. Last year, Leith—the former Rowan queen’s son—had taken it upon himself to become the father of Storm King’s heir, whether I consented or not. During my rescue, Dorian had then taken it upon himself to punish Leith—by impaling the prince on a sword. Katrice hadn’t taken that news well, starting a war between us that had eventually led to me inheriting this kingdom. I’d hated every minute of that war and had been wracked with guilt over the thought of soldiers dying for me, no matter how many times I’d been assured that my people were willing to defend my honor.

Dorian’s look wasn’t unsympathetic, but it wasn’t exactly warm and friendly either. “War may be on you again, whether you like it or not.”

“Enough,” I said, raking a hand through my hair. “I don’t want to talk about the nobility of war anymore. Ansonia survived, which is what counts. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

“Don’t put it off too long,” Dorian warned. “Or you may find others making decisions for you.”

“I know,” I said.

What I didn’t add was that I had no intention of letting any more decisions be made without me, nor would I allow any other girls to be hurt on my behalf. An idea was forming in the back of my mind, one I was pretty sure Dorian wouldn’t like. It created a hollow feeling inside me, but from the moment Pagiel had told us about Ansonia, I’d known I had to take drastic action—and not the kind Dorian was suggesting. The answer was so simple, I couldn’t believe it had never occurred to me before. With an expression as convincingly bland as one of Dorian’s, I glanced over at Roland. “Let’s go figure out where my next doctor’s going to be. At least that’s a relatively simple matter.”

Dorian scoffed. “A foolish matter, you mean.” But he made no attempts to go with Roland and me, just as I’d thought. He and Roland did exchange very nice, very polite farewells, which I took as a positive sign, considering their past interactions. I wondered how polite things would stay between them if the plan I was formulating actually came to pass.

“Nasty business back there,” said Roland, speaking up at last. We were almost to the castle’s exit, and I think he felt more at ease now that he was nearly free of the walls. “No easy answers.”

“No,” I agreed.

“How old is this girl you were talking about?”

“A little younger than her brother. That’s Pagiel—the one you just saw.” I didn’t bother correcting for the rate at which gentry aged compared to humans. Roland would understand.

“There’s a dirty feel to all of it,” said Roland. He scowled. “Attacking pregnant women, attacking children. I wish you weren’t involved in any of it.”

We passed through the gates, back toward the lush grounds that had held the wedding. Two guards silently detached from a group near the door and followed me, keeping that respectful distance they excelled at.