Taking my hand, the king removes the ring from its case and slides it onto my finger. It’s a band made up of yellow diamonds. I can’t decide whether it’s the ugliest or prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

The king stands, and without giving me a warning, he cups my face and his lips touch mine. I freeze for a split second, my mind and body conflicted, before I move my lips against his and return the kiss. I can feel a low burn starting at the bottom of my stomach and work its way through my limbs.

I touch a hand to his cheek and stroke the rough skin there. My abs clench. Aching want. Guilt. Divided loyalties.

The crowd continues to cheer, although now some whistles join the noise. It unsettles me that we have an audience—that we’re doing this for an audience.

The kiss ends and the king takes my hand, lifting it into the air. The motion swivels my body so that I’m now facing the audience. I focus on my breathing as I stare out at the crowd.

“May our marriage symbolize the peaceful joining of two hemispheres and the future prosperity of the world,” the king says. His words grate on my nerves. Of course, he’s marrying me because it’s the easiest, most secure way of controlling the entire world and snuffing out potential rebellions. A political alliance based on matrimony. What bothers me more than this realization is that the king’s motives make a difference to me.

The crowd’s cheers seem even louder now than they did before, and I force out what I hope sounds like a giddy laugh as I gaze at the king. His eyes stare back at me with that intensity I’ve come to recognize. And in this moment, I realize my mind is a small thing. Much smaller than the tide we’re being swept along, smaller than the king’s empire, smaller than the number of people who have fought and died to lead us to this moment.

But most of all, it’s smaller than the heart, and that’s the cruelest irony of all.

It’s late by the time we finally return to the king’s palace, and by then I’d shaken hands with hundreds of people, smiled until it felt like my face must’ve broken, and withstood the flash of dozens and dozens of cameras. Tonight I got my first taste of what it will be like as the king’s marionette. It made me want to shoot someone—preferably the king.

King Lazuli met my seething looks and barely contained anger with uncharacteristic patience, which only pissed me off further.

Our shoes click on the marble floor as Montes escorts me back to my room.