My attention lands on one of the hung paintings. Framed in polished silver with leaves and roses budding from the edges, it hosts a portrait of Prince Caelan. If there was a softness in his eyes when I first met him, it isn’t anywhere to be found here. Stern brows and a rigid jaw, one hand clutches the handle of a sword at his hip, the other firm at his side. His white furred cape hangs from his shoulders, and even through the oil paints, the silver stitching on his quilted vest gleams.

On his head is a crown of branches.

I trace my finger along the side of the frame, sending my gaze upward. The portrait is enormous. Too big to bother moving very often.

Heart pounding, I bring one of the chairs to the painting before climbing onto the padded cushion, steadying myself with nervous hands. Removing the device from my pocket, I place it on the top of the frame, next to one of the silver rosebuds.

I hop back to the floor, quickly returning the chair to the empty table. And then I look up at the familiar face in the painting, soaking in every detail with relief.

I’ve turned Prince Caelan into a spy for the Colony. A grin finds the edge of my mouth.

Voices echo through the hall, followed by the approaching shuffle of boots just outside the door.

With a sharp breath, I lunge for the balcony, pressing myself tightly against the outside wall. A slight breeze causes the curtains to billow, the sheer material doing a poor job of concealing my hiding place. I won’t be safe here for long—if a Resident steps so much as an inch onto the patio, I’ll be caught. And I’m not sure looking like a Resident is going to be enough to explain what I’m doing alone in the council room.

The door opens with a heavy grumble, and footsteps cross the threshold. I search quickly for an exit. The ledge overlooks one of the many palace gardens, but it’s steep. My consciousness isn’t strong enough to leap off a three-story balcony without feeling the impact. The pain would make it impossible to maintain any kind of Resident composure, and I still have to walk back through the Spring District. Not to mention a fall from that high could mean not being able to stand again at all.

I look toward the nearest window—one of the libraries, if I remember the hallway correctly. If I’m careful, I might be able to make it to the next ledge and use the room as a temporary hiding place.

I start to turn away from the curtains when I hear a deep voice that makes the back of my neck itch.

“My brother is playing with fire,” Prince Ettore says. “We can’t let this go on any longer.”