Safi did not want to smile—not for Henrick, not for any man ever again. But she did as she was ordered and bared her teeth for all the room to see. I hate you all, she thought before turning her most dashing grin upon the Emperor. And I will destroy you.

Henrick nodded, approval in the twitch upon his lips.

After a flippant wave at musicians across the room, a brisk tune began. The nobility, whether they wanted to or not, began to dance while Henrick sat upon his throne and Safi sat upon her own. The thrones were modern additions of scarlet satin that clashed with this ancient stone corner of the palace.

When Safi was a child, she’d found this room immense, terrifying. Now as a prisoner, she found it too small, too crowded, and dreadfully hot. Every member of the Cartorran nobility was crammed in here to celebrate. Again.

That was another thing that had, when she was a child, been so different. Then, Safi had come here to cower behind her uncle Eron, praying throughout that neither Henrick nor his Hell-Bards would realize what magic she kept hidden away.

She’d hated Eron for dragging her to Praga every year so he could pay the Hasstrel tithes. She’d hated him—with shit-roasting fury—for disappearing every night to drink himself into oblivion.

But everything had changed in Veñaza City two months ago when Safi had learned he was not, in fact, a drunk. Rather, he had a complex, sweeping plan to bring peace to the Witchlands—until he’d gotten caught before the plan could finish. Now he was somewhere in Cartorra, imprisoned for treason. And incomprehensible as it was, only Safi seemed to care about that fact. To Mathew and Habim, execution of the plan had mattered more than Eron’s life.

Well, Safi thought the entire plan was horse piss, and Eron didn’t get to die before he’d given her solid answers to the hundreds of questions she’d assembled since Dalmotti. So far, she’d discovered nothing. So far, she’d only gotten her magic stolen and her Threadsister lost far away.

I hate you all, Safi thought again as dancers swished past. Tonight was a quieter affair than the first weeks of dancing and music had been. No public feasting, and rather than a full orchestra rattling the room with heavy traditional marches, an octet of winds and strings was scarcely audible over a hundred voices and stamping feet.

Two of those feet belonged to Dom fon Grieg, who never missed a chance to bow dramatically at Safi when he saw her and inform her that her lands were still thriving beneath his hand. Safi smiled at him as he swept past, surprisingly graceful in this modern take on a country dance. I will destroy you, she thought, tossing him a wink for good measure.