I glance at him, my heart constricting. I’ve fantasized about killing the king—there have been times in my life where I wanted nothing more than to see him suffer and die for all the pain he caused me. And yet now that the tables are turned and my life is in danger, the king seems to want to do everything in his power to keep me alive.

I can’t stand that my ethics might be more corrupt than the king’s.

The doctor comes over to us. “Have you experienced any unusual symptoms up until now?”

I give him a long look. “I’ve lived most of my life in wartime conditions. I have no idea what ‘unusual symptoms’ might be.”

The doctor’s eyebrows dart up. “Were you exposed to radiation during that time?”

“Of course.” It was everywhere—in the soil, the drinking water, the crops. No one living in the western hemisphere could totally avoid it, but especially not me, who lived so close to D.C.

The king’s hand squeezes mine, and I glance at him. His expression is carefully blank, but that vein is pulsing in his temple.

War tears down everything. Morals, loyalties, lives. Its aftershocks can ripple long after it ends. This is merely one more way that it’s ripped my life apart. And now, maybe for the first time, it’s affecting the king’s life on a personal level.

“We will fix this,” the king says in that commanding voice of his, like this is just another minor obstacle.

Suddenly, I pity him, because some things simply cannot be conquered, and this might be one of them.

The next evening we sit on a jet flying to what was once Austria. Next to me, Montes drums his fingers on his armrest, his leg jiggling. His eyes keep returning to my stomach.

“Cancer,” he murmurs. He’s said that word several times today. Stomach cancer, to be precise. It’s one of several types of cancer caused by radiation.

I can’t help my next words. “Ironic that you caused the cancer you’re now trying to stop from killing me.” There’s poetic justice in that, though only the king gets the luxury of justice. The rest of us just pointlessly suffer.

He rubs his eyes. “We—we are trying to stop it from killing you.” I notice that he doesn’t address the other part of my statement. I guess he has to pretend it all away, otherwise he might actually realize what a despicable human being he’s been.

“Have you taken your medication?” he asks.

I shake my head. It’s the same mystery drug the king takes. Neither he nor the doctor told me what it does, but it leaves me wondering what exactly an undying king would need a prescription for.

Montes digs through a bag at his feet and pulls out water and a bottle of pills.