“It was a group effort,” I say quickly. “Iván . . .” I have no idea what I want to say about Iván. There’s too much, and yet all of it seems inadequate.

“I have already met privately with Iván,” the prince says.

“But it’s not just him. Every single first-year recruit helped, even some who got cut, like Itzal and Valentino. With the exception of DeLuca and Aldo, your Guard remained true down to the last nonfighting man.”

He nods. “I’m glad to know it.”

“Some died in the process. If a single one of them had failed, if a single one of them had not answered the call to duty, we could have—would have—lost.”

“Their contributions are noted and will be recognized. And yet, from my position here, sitting at this desk instead of lying dead on the floor of the ballroom, it appears to me that our entire victory hinged on one moment: when you came to me and asked to activate the Guard recruits. Activating recruits is unprecedented. You pushed beyond tradition and expectation to come up with an idea that could help us, and you pestered me until I gave you permission. Without that one decision, you and I and many others would most certainly be dead by now. And the country would be in the midst of a civil war.”

There is nothing I can say in response to this, so I bow my head. “Your Highness.”

He taps his finger on the desk and stares at me thoughtfully. “Elisa will return in a month or so. I expect she’ll offer you a boon. I wanted to give you time to consider. Think about what you’ll ask of her.”

I inhale sharply through my nose.

“Red?”

I hate asking for anything, but . . . “I already know.”

“Really? I mean, tell me. What do you want?”

I grin, my heart swelling with hope. “Everything. Rosario. I want everything.”

He raises a questioning eyebrow, and I tell him my plan.

We return to training. Master Santiago meets us in the sand one morning, and his face is dejected, his eyes clouded.

“I must explain a thing to you,” he says, pacing along our staggered line. “Sergeant DeLuca hired me to advance your training. He told me to make you strong, but also to withhold knowledge of true swordsmanship. He said there was a spy among the first-year recruits, and he didn’t want to enhance the skills of an enemy until we could suss him out.”

He whips his sword around, making it sing through the air. “Ah, but he lied. He was the real traitor, or rather, the real traitor’s fool. I guess that makes me the fool’s fool. But had I known . . . I never would have . . . I am dreadful with words; truly, my words are a foul cacophony of noise, unfit for decent ears, and anyway, who wants to learn the three basic stances from which to launch an attack?”