The maid’s door opened and closed on silent hinges, but a small squeak escaped her lips when she saw a folded piece of parchment on her bedside table. The black seal seemed to swallow the candlelight. With shaking fingers, she snapped the wax and unfolded the letter. 

The Three Towers Inn. Tonight. Pay for two and a fire.

Don’t leave her side.

“Lemma?” 

She whirled, letter crumpling in her hands, to find Natalie standing in her doorway. The lady’s maid shut the door behind her, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“The castle is practically empty. I told Finny and Holly to stay in their rooms, but Clara’s throwing a fit. Says the princess didn’t say a word when she delivered her dinner tray just now.” 

Lemma stood frozen, too aware of the letter in her hand. Too aware of the carpetbag and gowns spread across the bed behind her. 

“You’ve been acting strange ever since we started spying on suitors. Since the ball, even more so. I want to know why the princess has been holed up in her room, and why no one could find you all day. And where is everyone?” 

Lemma gulped. “Nat… I know that you’ve been jealous of the princess since the day you came back to court. And, I know you had your eye on Sir Schrader, even after he became one of Alethea’s suitors.” 

“Of course I’m jealous,” Natalie snapped. “I’m of marrying age but every man with hair and a title has been pining after her. But that does not mean I’m blind to what’s happening around here.” 

Lemma raised a brow while slowly, oh so slowly, shifting the letter behind her back. 

“The woman is a spoiled brat,” Natty went on. “My father once served on the king’s council, and it took him years to get back into court after her uncle became regent. The council has been taking Alethea’s power away bit by bit and she simply smiles and seemingly thanks them for it.”

The maid took a step closer, her skirts swishing as she moved. 

“But my father remembers what it was like before the king was killed. He’s warned me of the signs. Alethea may be a dolt, stealing away all my potential admirers, but she’s still our princess. I’m still loyal to Hart’s rightful monarch. Lemma, if something is happening…”

“It is.”

Nat’s mouth snapped shut. 

“The princess is in danger, and I need your help.”

Natalie’s head bobbed, and Lemma could see her mind working. Though she’d always been strong-willed, Lemma knew that she was smart. Cunning even. Natalie’s parents had hired private tutors to teach her outside of the Princess’s lessons that they attended with her. Lemma knew that Nat was aware of things happening outside the castle… outside the country. 

“My father has others from the council on his side. He has men in place to…”

“No.” Lemma’s voice dropped. “No, we can’t trust anyone else on the council. Alethea needs help from someone outside of Hart.” 

Nat’s eyes jumped to where the letter had been in Lemma’s hands. “There are very few countries who would offer aid to Hart’s princess. We’ve been at war too long, conquered too many, to trust them with this.” 

“There is one nation who would help us.” 

Nat’s eyes narrowed. “What does that letter say? The one you’re hiding behind your back?”

Lemma’s breath hitched. “If I tell you…”

“You can tell me.” Nat uncrossed her arms. Her eyes were full of determination, as if she’d been waiting for such a challenge to come along and fill her idle hours in this castle. 

“What I’m about to tell you comes with a cost,” Lemma warned. “If you betray me, or the princess, there is a man who will ensure you experience a slow and gruesome death at his hands.”

The maid’s face paled.

Lemma stepped to the bedside table. She held the letter over the candle and watched as the flames licked up the corner. Her fingers burned as the fire climbed, eating away every inked word and turning the wax seal into droplets of black on the wooden surface. 

“Have you heard of the Portür DeMot?” 

Natatlie’s face went another shade of white. “Hart’s protector. The death bringer.” 

Lemma nodded. “He is also Princess Alethea’s betrothed.” 

Nat wobbled where she stood. “How… Does Alethea know? Does her uncle…?”

“The regent knows that the late king arranged a marriage for his daughter, but he doesn’t know that it’s with the Portür DeMot. He knows, however, that it’s with a prince from another nation. He invited that prince here, to the castle, to try to break the betrothal.”

Natalie took a stiff, long breath, her corset creaking as she inhaled. 

“The Portür DeMot refused him, and he believes that Sir Schrader and others in the court are trying to… dispatch of the princess.”

Natalie placed a hand on her stomach. “How do you know all of this?”

Lemma squared her shoulders. “I am his spy. I’ve been protecting Alethea for as long as I’ve been by her side, and there have been numerous attempts on her life leading up to the ball.” 

The news seemed to ignite something within the other lady’s maid. Instead of fear, her eyes lit up. Her hand fell away from her corset as she straightened. 

“You mean to get her out of the castle.” 

It wasn’t a question, and Lemma was glad it was Natalie who had walked through her door instead of one of the other girls. 

“She’s not safe. Even now, alone in her rooms, Alethea is not safe. But, I need help.” 

Nat grasped Lemma’s hand in her own. “Tell me what to do.” 

* * *

Princess Alethea was going to die. 

Not from the assassin Lemma had just witnessed the Portür DeMot battle against in Alethea’s bed chambers but from her lack of knowledge about… well… everything. And Lemma did not have time to teach her everything she might need to know to survive. 

“Go stand by the fire. Try to dry your hair.” 

The princess listened to the lady’s maid, crossing the room at the inn Lemma had just purchased to stand near the hearth’s small fire. 

Fire. Lemma had to teach her how to build a fire! She had to explain how to keep a fire going throughout the night.

“Dry wood burns quickly,” Lemma said as she laid the princess’s sopping wet dress over a rickety stool by the hearth. “It is easy to light but means the fire will need to be fed more frequently.” 

“You can add plenty of logs before you retire,” the princess said to the maid. “That way you can get a few good hours of sleep before morning.”

Lemma’s heart broke at her words. How would she tell her? How would she explain to Alethea that, for the first time in her life, Lemma would not be at her side?

She turned away, unable to face the princess. All these years together… but Lemma knew she couldn’t stay. Wendlan’s prince had made a plan, and she was not part of it. Besides, it would only cause more suspicion if she traveled with them. Lemma knew that, but her heart still broke at the thought of leaving Alethea at such a time. 

A soft knock sounded at the door. 

Both women tensed.

“Wait here.”

Lemma tiptoed over. With a hand surprisingly steady, she nudged the door open. Just a crack. Enough for her to see who was outside. 

A cloaked man stood before her, water dripping from the hood that covered his face. He lifted his chin, just enough for Lemma to see what lay beneath. 

The Portür DeMot.

Prince Phillipe stood there, drenched from head to toe with eyes so dark they looked like night incarnate. Lemma glanced at him quickly, checking for blood after the confrontation they’d fleed from in Alethea’s chambers. But his clothes were so dark, a green so deep it was black, that she couldn’t tell if any blood covered him. 

“Is she safe?” he whispered in their native tongue, the language of Wendlan.

Lemma pulled the door open, wide enough for him to slip through.

“I wasn’t sure you received my message,” the maid whispered.

“Were you followed?” he asked, still speaking Wendlan’s words. 

Lemma shook her head. Phillipe pulled back his hood revealing red curls plastered over his forehead and neck. Somehow, he seemed more waterlogged than Lemma and Alethea. His dark eyes scanned every inch of the room before landing on her. The prince lifted his chin.

“They sent an assassin to kill her in her sleep. I knew they would try again, but I didn’t think it’d go this far. Not yet. After you detected those poisons…” The rain fell from his cloak, creating a puddle where he stood. “Your suspicions were correct, Lemma. It’s not just someone on the council attempting to harm her. Blake the Bile is behind this. I found letters admitting as much written in his own hand. And the poisons you identified were in a locked drawer in his room. As her fiancé apparent, he stands the most to gain by her death. That is, he and the king regent.” 

Lemma’s heart fluttered, the worst of her fears confirmed. “That’s why you changed the plan? That’s why you didn’t take her the night of the ball and flee to the country cottage. I thought… perhaps after meeting her, you had changed your mind about saving her.” 

Phillipe kept his eyes on the princess, watching her as she breathed. As she trembled.

“But this is better,” Lemma continued. “She’ll be safer in Wendlan, with you to protect her. You know from my letters that the princess is uneducated, at least in the ways that matter.” 

The maid glanced at the woman still gaping by the fire. Her wet hair was starting to soak the back of her dress, the dry dress she’d just changed into.

“She is terrified, my lord. Her whole life has changed in the blink of an eye, and she’s never been without her ladies. The princess has never been without… me. I know you will be decent towards her, and respectable…” 

Phillipe turned his attention to Lemma at that, eyes narrowing. 

“All her life men have told her what to do. They have taken her power little by little. They have taken her voice. If she’s unsure, it won’t only be because she lacks the knowledge but also because she lacks the confidence to make the decision herself. You are her betrothed, and you are honorable. But…” Lemma fought back tears as she swallowed. “Treat her kindly. The princess will test your patience, but she is good. She wants the best for her people, even if she doesn’t know what that is yet.”

Lemma sniffed, holding back the burden of her heart as it beat heavily in her chest. 

“Take care of my princess,” she commanded the Portür DeMot. 

The man only nodded, but Lemma knew it was a promise. It was the promise of a prince, an assassin, and of a betrothed. He would not let any harm come to Princess Alethea. After all, it’s why he came to Hart in the first place.

“Please, dry yourself at the fire,” Lemma offered, switching back to the language she knew Alethea would understand. “I can have dinner sent up for you.” 

His heavy boots thumped to the hearth. Alethea’s back hit the wall behind her as she stared with wide eyes at the prince.

“A man in my room!” she whispered to Lemma when the maid approached. “Tell him to leave. My reputation…” 

Lemma’s cool fingers gripped the princess’s chin as she pulled her attention away from the Portür DeMot. “You are a lady’s maid for Princess Alethea. Do you understand me?”

Alethea audibly gulped. 

“The princess was evacuated when an assassination plot was discovered, and she sent her maids away for safety. You do not know where the princess is. You are a maid, nothing more. This man,” Lemma tilted her head back to Phillipe standing behind her, “has been hired to take you to Wendlan.” 

“Wendlan?” Alethea gasped, but Lemma’s cold grip tightened around her chin. 

“You will listen to him. You will obey his every word. If you do not, your life is forfeit. Do you understand me?” 

Lemma’s chest felt as if it might burst. Once again, she fought back tears. Tears she couldn’t let the princess see.

“You must stay with him. No matter what.”

“But Lemma…”

“Say it.” Her voice lowered. “Promise me.” 

Fear laced the princess’s eyes. But it was fear that she would need to survive the journey ahead. 

“I’ll stay with him.” 

Lemma dropped her hand from Alethea’s face. She felt the silvery tears start to crest.

“I’ll make sure dinner is sent up for you.” 

She curtsied quickly to Prince Phillipe before extending the room’s key to him. When it left her palm, Lemma walked with her chin high to the door. As it clicked shut behind her, the tears fell. 

“What do I call you?” Lemma heard the prince say from within the room. “I’ll name you tomorrow before we leave.”

The maid placed a hand over her heart, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself before she had to return to the busy tavern at the front of the inn. Her job for the night was not yet complete. Phillipe was the safest place for the princess to be. 

But the rest of them… Lemma still had to get the other lady’s maids to safety. Natalie had come in handy for that, sending a letter and a trusted servant to her father to let him know of the imminent threat. If they could flee the castle in time, they could hide at Nat’s family’s country estate. 

Finny, Holly, and Clara should be under Nat’s direction now, packing simple bags to quickly and quietly leave the castle before dawn. Lemma would join them soon, after she wrote to her parents. And, after she wrote to Wendlan’s king and queen, alerting them to the change in Phillipe’s rescue plan. 

“I’m not safe,” she heard the Portür DeMot say through the door. “But you don’t want someone safe escorting you to Wendlan’s border.”

The maid hurried to the tavern bar and paid for two dinner plates to be sent to the room. Her hood was still wet and she drew it over her hair, covering her face. Rain pounded against her as she stepped outside the inn. Thunder shook the air and made the puddles at her feet quiver. She quivered with them, struggling against the fear gnawing at her bones.

The Portür DeMot was upstairs. 

He would save the princess. 

He would save Hart. 

And she was his spy.

With that knowledge, Lemma squared her shoulders, took a breath, and stepped back towards Hart’s castle.

The Prince of Wendlan looked out towards the sea. Its black waves rose and fell like steady breaths. Though the moon and stars hung high above, shining brightly against the night sky, their light did not touch that water’s inky depths. 

“Alethea, a carriage is waiting.” Yves’s youngest brother said to the princess of Hart. His voice was barely audible from down the stone steps, down the hill where she and Phillipe had said their final farewells. “Please, you have to leave. You must get to the border…”

The wind carried away the rest of his words, out of earshot as Yves continued looking towards the sea. But his attention was drawn to the presence behind him. He didn’t hear Phillipe’s boots against the limestone, but he felt him. Like a shadow lurking, watching. Waiting. 

It’s how it had always been with Phillipe. Though his twin brother shared Yves’ face and voice, their skill sets had always been vastly different. Despite it, Yves always felt the shadow when it was near. Always knew when his brother waited in the dark. 

Yves waited for a whisper to be uttered from the darkness, or for another blow to find its mark. But after a long moment, the shadow withdrew. Phillipe’s presence slowly faded, back up the hill and toward their castle. 

As if in response, his cheekbone throbbed, still aching from the blow Phillipe had given him only minutes ago. Yves could have dodged the punch. He could have blocked it or thrown a fist first, but he’d welcomed the hit. Welcomed the pain. 

For the first time, he had felt again. When he saw Phillipe and Alethea together, dancing at the ball Wendlan had held for her, Yves had felt fire flare through his chest. White hot and enraging, it had burned through his body. A body that was barely existing. But the anger and rage that came with that fire… Yves had told Phillipe to stay away from her. He had told his brother the pain that would come in saying goodbye. He had tried to tell the princess, too, but neither of them listened. 

So when Phillipe had confronted him on those steps, demanding a final farewell with Hart’s princess… Yves had welcomed his brother's fist when it barreled towards him. It had been so good to feel again. Even if it hurt. That pain was secondary to the one inside him. The one consuming everything of him that remained. 

But the moment he’d met Phillipe on those steps, Yves felt the guilt. The guilt of what he’d done to Phillipe and Alethea. The guilt of walking away from his people. The guilt of feeling anything without… her.

Vienne. 

Yves stared out to the sea. At nothing. At everything. For everything he was, everything he was ever going to be, now lay in those black waters. 

Lover. 

Husband. 

Father. 

King. 

All that he could have been had been killed and drowned with her.

“It’ll be alright, Alethea.” Joren’s voice drifted up from the hill.  “He’ll figure something out…”

Yves stared out to the sea. The sounds of horses and creaking wagons rose in reply to Alethea’s arrival. He knew Joren would get her into that carriage. He’d made sure his brother knew what would happen if he didn’t. 

Yves still didn’t look down at the princess. She was no longer his problem. He had fulfilled his promise to Phillipe, keeping her alive from the poison she’d suffered when crossing the border. And he’d kept his promise to Alethea, doing what he could to make things right after making Phillipe the Hîr Våsréi. He helped craft the plan to return Alethea’s kingdom to her. 

He’d fulfilled his promises. 

So Yves continued to watch the ocean, dark masses growing and shrinking against the starlit horizon as the waves rolled. Barely visible against the night sky, Yves could make out unfurled sails on a ship’s mast. They were full with air, the wind pushing them toward Wendlan’s bay. 

Shouts from commanders rose up as the caravan began its journey to the border. Yves remained on his hilltop as the noise grew and faded, disappearing out of the city and into the Wendlan countryside. The throbbing in his cheek faded with the noise of the caravan, turning into a dull ache. 

The night was late enough that the blue of the sky had turned to black against the stars. 

Yves wouldn’t return to the ball still taking place on the far side of the palace. All the noise and people. And their visitors from other nations did not yet know Wendlan’s secret of having twin princes. One a diplomat, the other an assassin. The twin princes who, after all these years, had continued to share living quarters within the palace. Phillipe would be there now, Yves knew, trying to pull himself together before going to meet the army that would march against Hart’s forces. Against the vile Blake Schrader. 

Any other place Yves could think to retreat to just held memories of Vienne. So he stayed on that hill. He watched the lone ship sail closer and closer to Wendlan’s harbor as the sky became a slow gradient of black to grey then grey to red. 

But as the colors of the sun began leaking across the horizon, a shadow appeared behind him once more.

“She’ll be crossing the border soon,” Phillipe said, his voice hoarse. 

Yves did not reply. 

“Most of our forces are nearly to Dinela Pass.” 

Yves’ chest rose as he inhaled the scent of sea salt carried on the wind. 

“Joren keeps trying to come with me. I need you to hold him here until the battle’s over. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him, and he’s slippery. He’ll try sneaking out of the city, but you know his secret passages.”

“I’ll go with you,” Yves whispered. 

The shadow moved to his side without a sound.

“I’ll go with you to Dinela Pass. I can take on Blake the Bile myself. He doesn’t know about us. I can confront him head-on while you…”

“This isn’t your fight, Yves.” 

The fire inside him threatened to rile up again, but Yves tempered it down. He let the numbness of his heart smother the flames. 

“He killed her.” Yves' voice was unrelenting as he said to his brother, “He sent the ship that attacked hers. We all know it, and we know he’s a force to be reckoned with. I’ll go with you, and we’ll have the element of surprise…”

Phillipe squared his shoulders. “I won’t let you use this battle as an excuse to get yourself killed.” 

Yves’ own shoulders fell, all the confirmation Phillipe needed to know he was right about his brother.

“I have no more purpose,” Yves said. “I have nothing else to give this world, and it has nothing else to give me.”

Yves kept his eyes on the ocean, watching the ship that had sailed all night now begin to pull in its sails. Though he knew it was too far away, he thought he could hear the groan of the hull, the slap of the waves, the creak of the ropes pulled tight against the gathered fabric. 

At his side, Phillipe turned to the bay following his brother’s gaze. 

“A ship?” Phillipe murmured. “We ordered all ships to remain in port. No one has left since…” 

Bells pealed from the city tower. 

Yves’ breath hitched in his throat. Phillipe’s chest froze as he, too, held his breath, waiting to hear which notes were played, which order they were rung… 

“Rescue,” Phillipe exhaled. 

The word was barely out of his mouth before Yves was running down the hillside. His legs, sore from standing on that hill most of the night, screamed at him in protest. But the pain was nothing. True pain already cut through him, stabbing at the dead, shattered pieces of his heart that he thought could never hurt more than they already did. But there it was… 

Hope. 

It would surely kill him this time. He should take the precious moments he had left before the thing inside him exploded and ended him once and for all. He should take a moment to apologize, one last time, to Phillipe. 

But that pain… that hope… had him sprinting towards the city. Towards the harbor. Towards the ship he’d been watching all night long. 

“Yves!” Phillipe shouted from behind him. “Be careful!” 

But he was already jumping the fence, careening over each gate and crate that stood in his path. He knew Phillipe was on his heels, easily keeping up with him. Phillipe hadn’t let his body waste away for weeks. Hadn’t gone without food or sleep for days on end. Yves had done that, and it was his weak, fragile body that now stumbled through the city square. 

The toe of his boot caught on an uneven flagstone. Yves’ threw his hands out to catch himself, palms scraping over the courtyard ground as he tumbled forward. 

But Phillipe was already there, grabbing his brother around the waist and hauling him back to his feet. Yves only leaned against his twin long enough to catch his balance before he shoved him off. 

“Go to Dinela Pass,” Yves panted. “Alethea is crossing the border. You have to get to the pass. You have to distract Blake and his army.” 

Phillipe’s eyes danced between the harbor beyond and his brother. 

“Go, Phillipe.” 

The mask of the Portür DeMot slid over his face. With darkened eyes, his brother gave a curt nod before turning on his heels and running back for the castle. 

Yves didn’t spare him another thought. He sprinted forward, dodging this way and that, grabbing corners of houses and shops as he turned and ran and turned, taking the quickest streets, the quickest route, to the bay. 

It was forever and it was only a moment when Yves’ boots pounded over the cedar wood of the docks. He didn’t recognize the masthead as he ran, but he didn’t care. His legs wobbled over the slick wood where water had splashed up from the sea waves, but he didn’t fall. Eyes ahead, he wouldn’t let himself fall again. 

Dozens of others were already filling the dock, hurrying to the ship. Ropes groaned against their knots as the ocean pulled at the vessel, rocking it where it was anchored. Spring lines were thrown and shouts rose on the wind as the dock workers tied them off to keep the ship from swaying in the slip.

“The Hîr Våsréi!” A voice rose from the crowd. “Make way for the Hîr Våsréi!” 

Yves ignored their cries, not caring that the title was no longer his. All that mattered was that the crowd parted in time as he turned the corner and took off down the final pier. The end of a gangplank rose up over the heads of the crowd as it landed against the hull of the ship. His breath sawed in his chest as that hope inside - that terrible, wonderful hope - kept breaking parts of him he already thought were destroyed. 

But then he saw it. 

Golden hair blowing in the breeze that stirred along the docks. A woman was being handed out of the ship, onto the gangway. That golden hair blew across her face, until she turned towards Wendlan, towards him.

A sob escaped his lips. 

A smile spread over her face as her blue eyes lit up at the sight of him. 

He would die right now, he thought. That smile. Those eyes, so full of joy at seeing him. It would kill him before he could reach her. 

“Yves!” 

His body almost crumpled at the sound of her voice, but he willed it not to give out. Not yet. 

Not until he had her in his arms. 

She stepped to the bottom of the gangplank at the same time that he reached it. Her arms were outstretched towards him, and he couldn’t wrap his around her fast enough. Then she was there, in his embrace. The smell of her, orange blossoms and coconut. The feel of her, soft skin and warm against his body.

He lifted her off the ground, spinning her in the air. When her feet touched the dock again, his lips were crashing into hers. There was no thought to the people around them, no thought to whether or not Yves’ heart would explode from how hard, how fast it beat within his chest. 

Vienne was alive. 

Vienne was here, in his arms and against his lips.

She was light. She was love. She was life. She was… 

Yves pulled away. His hands slid to hers, trembling as he held them. Then he dropped to one knee. 

“I have no helm to offer,” Yves said through gasping breaths, “but I will use my knowledge of this world as armor to protect you, mother of our nation.”

Vienne let out a sob, tears flowing down her cheeks as she looked at him. 

“May my steel protect you before a threat is even whispered in your name, lady of my heart.”

He reached behind him and grasped the blade sheathed in his belt. Yves didn’t flinch as the knife sliced through the skin of his forearm, red blood pooling over and dripping onto the dock.

“I have no ruby to offer, so let my heart’s blood be a promise of my loyalty and trust, bearer of my soul.”

He dropped the knife, taking her hands in his once more. 

“From now until our reign ends.”

Vienne was already nodding, too choked up to accept his vow with coherent words. The crowd around them cheered before Yves could throw his arms back around her. Before his mouth could find hers once again. The blood from his arm soaked into the back of her dress, but neither of them cared. 

Vienne was alive. Vienne was home.

His beloved. 

His future. 

His wife. 

“I have so much to tell you,” she said, the words pressed against his lips. 

And it was so Vienne to pull away, right at that moment, to notice his gaunt cheeks. The pale, limp hair. The too-thin frame and darkened eyes. Then her eyes slipped behind him to someone there. To a shadow that lurked at Yves’ back despite the morning light. And Vienne noticed everything different about that shadow, too. The things about Phillipe that no one else’s eyes could see. 

“Yves?” she breathed. “What happened?”

He pressed another kiss to her lips, but she pulled away, frowning again at his changed features. 

“Yves Shastan Alwyn.” Her voice shook as she said his name. “Tell me what…” 

“He abdicated,” Phillipe’s hoarse voice said before Yves could utter a word. “Alethea’s uncle and court tried to kill her, so we went to Hart. Yves helped me rescue her, but while I traveled with her, Yves came back here. He heard about the shipwreck. We thought you were…”

“Dead,” Vienne said for him. 

Phillipe nodded. “Yves abdicated. I am now Hîr Våsréi.”

The look Vienne turned on Yves had Phillipe almost pitying his brother… almost. 

“You were dead, Vienne!” his brother choked. “You have no idea what…”

“You will wish you were dead by the time I’m through with you!” Vienne’s blue eyes narrowed. “How could you do that to poor Alethea? To Phillipe! You will fix this right now. You will make this right.” 

Despite her apparent fury, Yves’ arms were still around her as he stumbled for words. 

“I apologize for the complete lack of judgment from your brother and my betrothed.” Vienne declared, not waiting for Yves to find his voice

Phillipe almost laughed out loud. It was like she hadn’t been away for a moment. As if everything was some terrible dream they’d just woken from.

“Vienne, you just came back from the dead. Can we take a moment to…”

“Shush!” Yves’ now-wife scolded. “Is Princess Alethea here? I’d like apologize in person for the disaster my apparent death has caused.” 

Yves’ eyes went wide as he turned to look at the rising sun. “The border. She’ll be crossing any minute. Phillipe, why did you come back?” 

His jaw worked up and down before saying, “I had to know. I had to know if Vienne was alive.”

“You have to get to Dinela Pass before the battle gets out of hand. Those are Hart’s soldiers… Alethea’s soldiers that Blake will send out to die.”

“A battle?” Vienne’s voice sombered.

“Go, Phillipe.”

But his brother stood before him, eyes still dark, set firmly on Vienne. “I chose Wendlan over her,” he confessed. “She is the sole heir to Hart. I am the Hîr Våsréi, and I…I chose Wendlan over her.”

Vienne lifted a gentle hand, cradling Phillipe’s cheek in her palm. “She will take you back, Phillipe. I don’t need to have met Hart’s princess to know that she will. Because I know you, and you are worthy of her love and of the kingdom you’ve protected all these years.” 

Her words stirred something inside him. His eyes narrowed, and it was as if they watched the assassin take over Phillipe’s body, pushing the prince inside of him aside.  

Vienne dropped her hand and said to Yves, “Fix this. Make it right.”

Yves squared his shoulders as he looked his brother in the eye. He let his voice carry loudly, for all around them to hear as he proclaimed, “I hereby challenge the Portür DeMot for heirdom of Wendlan, to reclaim my title as Hîr Våsréi.”

“I yield,” Phillipe said before the words were out of Yves’ mouth. “Unreservedly.”

“Then as your Hîr Våsréi,” Yves said, “I command you to destroy the tyrant that has been masquerading as Hart’s regent prince.”

Phillipe bowed before his brother. “He’ll regret the day he ever set eyes on my wife.”

Though Vienne did not know the entirety of their situation, her voice rang with authority - the authority of Wendlan’s future queen. “Go, Phillipe. Your country needs you. Protect your Hart once more.”

They watched as the prince of Wendlan, the Portür DeMot, ran back down the docks. The crowds parted for him, the piers now full of people arriving to help the ship. Phillipe was a blur of green and black as he moved. A handful of soldiers were waiting for him on the city’s streets where he mounted a horse before disappearing through the buildings, heading for the mountains beyond. 

“You have quite the story to tell,” Vienne said, nestling herself against Yves’ bony shoulder. “Can you start with why you look like an absolute ghost of yourself?”