“We fight,” Kahina confirmed. Then she waved her pipe at the Dalmotti navy, floating obliviously upon the waves. “’Tis a fine day for destruction, don’t you think?”

A light rain misted the dawn, though sun warmed Vivia’s back as she rocked upon the deck of the Lioness. She wondered if she’d find a rainbow in the southern sky. She didn’t turn to look. Didn’t take her eyes off Captain Kadossi before her. To her right, Vaness stood tall and impeccable, dressed once more in her golden gown. Vivia too had donned her finest clothes, red broadcloth as bright as the rising sun, silver buttons winking.

They would turn themselves in looking like the rulers they were.

“Welcome aboard,” the captain said, his mustache twitching in time to his nose. A fresh shaving cut marred his otherwise flawless chin. He was a handsome man, young and less weathered by sun than the sailors and witches clustered around him—which meant he was not an opponent Vivia wanted to cross. In Dalmotti, only pure merit earned rank.

Fortunately, if all went according to plan, she wouldn’t have to fight him.

“You made a wise choice turning yourself in, Your Highness.”

“It’s ‘Your Majesty,’” Vivia replied. “And I know. That’s why I made it.”

Beside her, Vaness huffed a sigh that on anyone else would seem dramatic. On her, it was threatening. “Let us dispense with conversation, Captain Kadossi. We are here as your doge desires, now call off your sailors, return the prisoners to shore, and let us make way.”

A slight bow, a nod at his second-in-command, then he motioned to the nearest railing, beyond which the Origin Well stood. “You may watch, if you wish.”

Vivia did wish. The entirety of her plan relied on all prisoners reaching shore. Only then would she utter the trigger for Vaness’s Ironwitched drills: a common Nubrevnan curse, but spoken in Dalmotti so no one would accidentally release the drills too soon. Vivia and Vaness needed to be far from land when that happened.

With Vaness beside her, Vivia strode to the balustrade, chin high. A perfect mimicry of the Empress, who, exactly as she’d done in Veñaza City, moved effortlessly. Boredom hooded her eyes, impatience sharpened her movements. All her life, Vivia had believed this performance was the true Vaness—the only Vaness—just as she’d always believed her father was actually a man of grandeur and accomplishment. The difference between them, she supposed, was that her father’s mask hid nothing but emptiness; Vaness’s hid iron and heat and sacrifice.