Percy threw her a wounded look. He pulled his shirt off with one smooth movement, revealing a sheen of sweat gleaming over dozens of thin scars that wrapped his body in a wicked lace. Odd. He dressed and spoke like a nobleman’s child—but those were the scars of a soldier.

Percy crooked a finger at Galen. “Come on, princeling. I’m hard to break, I promise.”

Galen looked slightly disturbed. “Is everyone from the Star Isles as insane as you?”

“We’re not insane. You people are just boring.”

“Aren’t ambassadors supposed to be polite?”

“Aren’t princes supposed to be charming?”

“Father always said the Star Isles bred madness,” Galen deadpanned. “I thought he was being dramatic. Now I’m inclined to think he was right.”

Percy gave Galen a grim smile. “You don’t know the half of it, princeling.”

Ranka’s eyes narrowed. There was a hitch to Percy’s tone she didn’t trust. A hint of something deeper, an echo of a secret held back. She knew painfully little of the Star Isles—Ongrum had said the island kingdom had once been a powerhouse of trade, but a decade ago a bloody coup had forced them to abruptly close their ports. A rebel queen had taken the throne after slaughtering the royal family, much of the noble class, and many civilians. After that the island went dark.

Or so they thought.

Yet here was Percy—who seemed to be wildly unfit for the role of ambassador, even to Ranka’s untrained eye—now residing within the palace walls, lingering close to the princess. Was he an honored guest? A spy? And why send him now?

Maybe Queen Ilia had sent him as an insult. Or maybe they really were all madder than a bag of cats.

Galen crossed his arms. “This is ridiculous. I know you guys want to help, but I have teachers for that—”

“Teachers you keep firing,” Aramis interjected.

“But what if I hurt Percy?”

“I’ll consider it a perk.” Percy winked dramatically. “I like a little pain.”

Galen made an interesting noise. “You are the most—Percy, if I break your spine, the Crown is not paying your healer fee.”

“You rule justly, young prince.” Percy gravely dipped into a bow. “If you break my spine, cast my body to the sea. Let the mermaids cradle my tragically beautiful face and drown Seaswept in their mourning cries—”

“Solomei’s light, Galen,” Aramis called. “Shut him up or I’ll do it myself.”

Ranka’s skin crawled. Undone and laughing, sweating and smiling in the sun, Aramis and Galen seemed less like polished royals and more like the witchlings she’d grown up alongside—innocent and energetic, drunk on how eternal the rest of their lives felt.

They didn’t seem like the heads of a country. They just seemed like kids.

“Come on, Galen. You’ve got to try.” Percy waggled his fingers. “Do the sparky thing.”