Micah sat on the far end of the bench, a careful distance away. Sliding a bulky carry bag from his shoulder, he rested it on his knees. It looked heavy.

Raisa eyed the bag, wondering what it could possibly contain.

“You are angry with me because…?” Micah prompted.

Raisa took a breath, and the words tumbled out. “The queendom is in crisis, the worst since the Breaking. Fellsmarch Castle is under siege by not one but two armies. The gifted were once called the Sword of Hanalea—the most potent weapon against our enemies. We cannot afford to waste a single asset. And what is the Wizard Council doing? Murdering each other.”

Micah’s eyes narrowed. “I see. So Alister launches a murderous attack, ends up dead, and somehow I am to blame.”

“I have your word for that, and no one else’s,” Raisa said. “After all that’s happened, why should I believe you? I appointed him to the Wizard Council—a move you Bayars vehemently opposed—and now he’s dead. Who’s next—Fire Dancer?”

Micah’s lips tightened at the mention of his half brother.

“Perhaps you see this as an opportunity to rid the queendom of your enemies while I face the southerners alone.” Raisa’s face burned, and she knew her cheeks were flaming.

“I did not choose my father, and I did not make this world we live in. Even so, I am doing my best to protect you.”

“You keep saying that, Micah, but I’m not seeing it. For instance, I would think that the gifted would share my interest in keeping the queendom free of Ardenine interference, given the fact that they burn wizards in the south. And yet the southerners are in the Vale, and the gifted are hiding out in the mountains.”

“As are the copperheads,” Micah fired back, anger sparking in his black eyes. “We have not been idle, Raisa. Many of the gifted were surprised in their summer homes. Many have already died.”

“Including Han Alister,” Raisa snapped.

“I didn’t kill him,” Micah growled. “I wasn’t even there.”

“So how do you know what happened?”

Micah looked her in the eyes. “I don’t, exactly.”

“But you’re sure he’s dead. And you’re glad.”

Micah rolled his eyes. “Yes—on both counts. I can’t help how I feel. And he’d feel the same way about me if I were dead.”

“But you’re not.”

“Do you wish I were?” Micah’s voice shook, and he turned his face away, taking long, shuddering breaths.

Bones, Raisa thought. She put her hand on his arm. “No. I don’t wish you were dead.”

“We’ve known each other all our lives,” Micah said. “I know what you’re up against, and you know what I’ve lived with. We’re survivors. We know how to be practical.”

There was a plea hidden in there—but for what?