“My father,” Adare said. “He was hunting you even as you murdered him. Your attack triggered his trap.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation, but il Tornja seemed to accept it, pursing his lips, then nodding. “Makes sense. Sanlitun was clever. Clever and tenacious. Much like his daughter.”

It was the casualness of the compliment that shattered her reserve. He said the words as though even after his admission Adare might simply slip back into his arms, wide-eyed and breathless for his approval. As though the Sons of Flame and Fulton’s blade at his neck—a blade he had not once deigned to look down at—were insubstantial as her father’s ghost, wraiths that might be dismissed with the wave of a hand or a strong gust of wind. As though it didn’t fucking matter that he had murdered the Emperor and seized the throne for himself.

“If my father was so clever,” Adare demanded, voice rising, “if he was so tenacious, then why did you kill him?”

“If you read my letter, then you know: he was killing Annur,” il Tornja replied evenly. His gaze was level, sober, all trace of insouciance suddenly scrubbed away.

Adare shook her head, blood slamming in her temples.

“My father was a good emperor. One of the best. He oversaw a generation of peace and prosperity.”

The kenarang nodded. “Unfortunately, good men can make bad decisions, and peace is not always possible.” He considered Adare. “You seem to have learned that lesson quickly enough.”

“I raised an army because you forced me to. . . .”

“I did?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Was it my series of brutal atrocities? My callous disregard for the people of Annur? Where are the gibbets dangling with my political foes? Where are the burned-out shells of homes?” He shook his head. “Annur may burn, Adare, but if it does, remember this, you brought the fire.”

Adare’s mouth hung open. The man had put a knife into her father’s beating heart, framed a priest, and he expected to lay the guilt at her feet?

“You flouted our laws and usurped the Malkeenian line,” she said, voice tight as a harp string. “I am defending both.”

“More’s the pity,” he replied. “I had hoped you might be here to defend Annur.”

“You want me to believe that ‘defending Annur’ means sitting idly by while you profane the Unhewn Throne?”

“Your throne is an absurd piece of furniture in which I have less than no interest. I would gladly pass it over to you, although from what I’m told, you’ve already claimed it for yourself. Your Radiance.”