“You did nothing, it’s your fault—”

She spun around. “Aye, to be sure it’s all my fault, it’s not like you kept harping on Hawks and duty and how he had to keep you alive—”

“You didn’t stop him, you let him go—” Jasimir sputtered back.

“—and it’s my fault your rat-heart cousin turned on us in Cheparok, and I’m sure it’s my fault your rotten pappy let the Oleanders grow strong enough to sway a queen, aye—”

“Don’t talk about politics you don’t understand—”

“—and of course, when this all goes guts-up because no one in their right mind will buy that you have a drop of Ambra in you, that’ll be my fault, too, aye?”

“How much more will you let them take from you?” The prince’s hands balled into fists. “They have your father, they have your family, and now they have Tavin. What else are you going to give up?”

Fie turned, half to get moving, half because her lip quivered. “We have to keep the oa—”

“Fuck the oath!” Jasimir shoved her from behind. The sword tumbled from her grip and clattered to the earth.

Fie stood a moment, breathing hard. Then she collected the sword and turned, slow, to face Jasimir. His chin jutted out, eyes burning in the bloody dusk.

“Say that again,” she rasped.

He glared dead at her, tears cutting fresh lines down his face. “Fuck. The. Oath.”

The iron in her spine yielded to murderous fire.

A curious thing happened then: the crown prince of Sabor looked at Fie, and for the first time, fear crept into his eyes.

Perhaps it was the sword that she had and he didn’t. Perhaps it was the memory of what she’d done to Viimo and the knowledge that more Hawk teeth waited in the bag at Fie’s side.

Perhaps it was the fact that to most of the nation, he was good as dead.

For the first time, both of them kenned he was wholly at her mercy.

Fie cocked her head, eyes glittering sharp. Some part of her had been ready for this from the moment he tried to duck cutting the oath. He could spout his high-minded hogwash all he wanted, but she’d waited for what happened when it stopped being easy to keep his word. And here they were.

What’s your word worth, Hangdog asked on a night too far away, when you’re good as dead?

Nothing, it turned out. It was worth nothing.

It’d be so easy. She could march the prince into Tatterhelm’s camp at sword point. She’d barter all the hostages back. She’d buy them time.

She’d look after her own.

You’re the girl with all the teeth, Viimo said on a faraway dune. Maybe we can deal with you, too.

Just like they’d dealt with Hangdog.