“Amara,” I say. I don’t know why, and maybe it isn’t, but I like the idea of the first Queen of Heart standing watch. The Empyrium said the first rulers of Ouranos were good kings and queens, and I need a role model more inspiring than my grandmother.

We continue walking, taking in the relics of our grandparents’ ruin. Interspersed between everything are vines and roses. The contrast between life and death, between the past and a possible future, makes my chest tight.

Finally we reach the castle wall and pass into the crumbling courtyard. I note the spot where Nadir and I stood when he said the roses started to grow for me. The same spot where I looked at him and knew I was already falling.

Hand in hand, we stand at the base of the castle, peering up at its jagged spires and the once white stone now grey and mottled by history.

“You okay?” I ask Willow, and she nods, though I can tell she’s putting on a brave face.

“This is . . . harder than I thought it would be. You know?”

“I know,” I say and squeeze her hand.

We enter the castle and walk down the hall in single file. This was where Rion’s soldiers entered, finding us in the throne room after that night when I screamed at Nadir that I would never be his. I can smile at the memory now as I peer over my shoulder. Even if I can’t see him, I know he’s there, just beyond the walls, watching after me.

The reminder of our somewhat rocky relationship makes me think of Tristan.

“How did you leave things with Nerissa?” I ask my brother, whose eyebrows climb up his forehead. He bends down to pick up a stone before tossing it, then catching it in his hand.

“It wasn’t serious. We agreed to leave it open-ended for now. I don’t know if I’m ever going back.” He pins me and Willow with a serious look. “Right?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“It was just nice to feel something.” He pauses and then adds, “It’s been a long time.”

Willow and I exchange a look. While fewer female prisoners lived inside Nostraza, Tristan also had his fair share of flings.

“Remember Seraphina?” I ask, and Tristan snorts.

“How could I forget?” He shakes his head at the memory of the mortal woman who swept into Nostraza when Tristan was nineteen. She was almost twice his age, and she had been stunning before Nostraza did what it does to everyone.

She oozed charisma, and Tristan spent the better part of six months following her around like a lovesick puppy. Eventually, like all prisoners in Nostraza, she succumbed to the cumulative weight of its environment, and Tristan moped around the prison for another good six months.

“She practically made me a man,” he sighs wistfully. “The things she taught me . . .”