Is that what Queen Ophelia wanted? To turn humans into self-aware servants, each programmed to do only as they’re told?

Sickness roils through me.

Maybe Gil was right when he said I knew nothing about this world.

When Ettore pulls his gaze from the painting, the superiority returns. “The humans here should no longer feel sorrow, and yet they paint it like their hearts are heavy with it.”

I try to hide my trembling fingers in my skirts and shift slightly away from him, focusing on another painting nearby. The dark lines and shadows draw me in, and I’m glued to a portrait of a woman cradling a blanket as black as soot, its threads bleeding out into the cracks of the floor like she’s clutching darkness in her hands.

Like she’s clutching death.

Ettore hums beside me like he knows I understand. “This is why humans will forever remain weak. They can’t let go of their pain. They have the ability to create, yet they waste it on art that only emphasizes how truly flawed the human soul is.”

“Is sorrow such a terrible flaw?” I ask.

“It is when they’d rather paint than fight,” he says, eyes darkening.

It’s not like they have a choice, I want to spit, feeling my body go rigid. Worried I’m giving too much away, I lift my chin and attempt a mild smile. “Who says art isn’t a form of resistance?”

Ettore looks at me fully, and I feel my bravery quake deep in my chest. “It’s not often someone disagrees with me that isn’t my brother.”

“How many times do I have to ask you to stop bothering my guests?” Caelan’s voice sounds from behind us. When I turn, the snow-haired prince is standing in the arched doorway, hands clasped behind him. “I don’t come to your court and infect everyone with my broodiness.”

“Oh, brother. If you think broodiness is the worst offense at a party, you should really come to War more often.” Ettore flashes his teeth.

Prince Caelan doesn’t blink. “Is that a threat?”

Ettore smiles innocently. “Whatever do you mean?” And then he makes his way back to the main hall, brushing his shoulder against Caelan’s furs on his way past.

To his credit, Caelan doesn’t react at all. Not even to me.

I remember who I’m standing in front of and lower myself into another curtsy before moving toward the door. Interacting with the princes of Victory and War wasn’t part of the plan. I should leave before I make things worse.

“I apologize for my brother,” he says suddenly. “He looks for a fight wherever he goes. It’s not personal.”

I halt a few feet away, eyes frozen on the room beyond. Say something, my mind orders. “I take very little personally, Your Highness.”