I step into the atrium and follow a glass hallway into the greenhouse branching off from the palace.

Constantine’s pulse grows stronger. He’s in here somewhere.

Warm air greets me as I step in. Lush plants nod their heads down at me, and the scent of flowers from all parts of the world hit my senses. Overhead, the glass dome reflects a cool blue hue from the night sky. Like the sculptures that decorate the city’s thoroughfares, this greenhouse comprises plants taken from the Federation’s conquered territories. I catch sight of the broad-leaved trees I remember growing around Basea. Soon, there will probably be a pond here featuring the hardy camifera seaweed that grows along Mara’s sea cliffs.

My attention shifts to the greenhouse’s back wall, which connects it to the palace, the only wall made of stone instead of glass. As I walk toward it, I realize that there is a slight opening in the wall, and within that slit flickers a faint light.

I walk up to the opening and find that it slides open.

It gives way to a dark, narrow corridor wide enough only for a single person.

I hesitate. I’ve been in this greenhouse multiple times, shadowing Constantine as he enjoys his manicured garden, but this is the first time I’ve noticed this hidden space. There’s a corridor that runs behind this back wall, with a rectangle of weak light illuminating the very end of it. In the darkness, I can see the faint glow coming from my eyes, lighting the way. The farther down the corridor I go, the more distinct the outline at the end becomes, until I finally reach it. I give the door the gentlest push. At first it doesn’t budge, but with a little more pressure, it slides open to reveal a small, dimly lit room with no windows.

I find myself staring at Constantine’s back, lantern light illuminating him as he leans hunched over a table.

His headpiece, no longer on his bare head, lies untouched on the edge of the desk, and the wide black mark running down his eye is smudged, as if he’s run his hands repeatedly across his face.

The smell of wine hangs heavy in the air. His emotions, jagged before through our bond, are now overwhelming, a bleak, black ocean that swells against my mind, threatening to drown out anything and everything else.

The room itself borders on madness. Every wall is covered with maps and outlines. Beautifully detailed drawings of each former nation conquered by the Karensa Federation are nailed one on top of another, the intricate sketches of the towns and cities marred by raw lines of rough ink and pencil scribbled over them. The writing is jagged, the handwriting so messy it’s illegible. The maps look old, the paper sepia red and curling at the edges with age. Underneath these stacks of individual maps is an enormous tapestry stretching across the entire side of one wall, depicting the Federation as it stood before Mara’s fall. My eyes jump instinctively up to where Mara is, and there I see a new map nailed above all the others—an exquisite drawing of every territory in my former nation. This, too, has been scribbled on, circling each of Mara’s cities in deep graphite.