Little yen her ass. James rarely waited—and, even more rarely, worked—for the things he wanted. It was a symptom of his coddled upbringing to strive only for the things he could easily achieve. When he wanted objects, he spent money. When he wanted men, his currencies were his well-bred looks and crystal-cut wit. He shot arrows, and the arrows always found their targets. This was the first time Scratch had seen him want something so desperately that the wanting was very nearly fear.

“I know,” she said in a near whisper. “I know how terrible it is to want something, Jamie. To hope. How it feels like nothing more than self-sabotage.” She swallowed. “We haven’t been able to desire things. Not really. We were told to fight, and we fought. And everything we wished for was within those lines, drawn by someone else. We desired the things we were told to desire. We valued what we were told mattered. Now we really get to choose.” She smiled at him. “Let’s.”

He met her smile, then let his fall. “If we get the opportunity. We’re in a dungeon, in case you’ve forgotten.”

She snorted. “Please. When has a dungeon ever held the likes of us?”

As if on cue, heavy, clomping footsteps alerted them to the presence of a Koravian guard lumbering into the chamber. He approached wordlessly, peering down at Scratch over a full brown beard. In Ivinscont, beards were forbidden for members of the Kings Guard. If Frances took the throne, Scratch might advise her to let her Guard keep the beards. The effect of wild hair over a proper uniform was a touch terrifying.

“Keyes,” he growled. “Ursus. You’ll follow me.”

Scratch heaved herself to standing, shooting James a triumphant smirk before blinking away spots of dizziness. She hadn’t had a proper meal since leaving Nana’s, and the hunger was starting to get to her. She found an uneasy balance as the guard opened their cells and led them out of the dungeons, Scratch and James following the hulking man like a pair of dazed ducklings.

For fifteen years, Scratch had heard tales of Koravia, those black horses and wild-eyed riders wielding potion-dipped spears, trampling innocent Ivinscontians underfoot. She had imagined that Koravia’s castle would be somewhat akin to a dark manor on a hill, with green, smoky plumes from alchemical chambers off-gassing through turret-y chimneys, turning perpetual night starless. The sort of place that attracted stray lightning bolts and feral black cats, wizened witches prowling the halls with phials of poison clinking under their threadbare robes.

After everything else, Scratch should have expected to be wrong about this, too.