3rd Week of March, 1460

  Relief was a shared, almost physical thing that passed through the fifty-five men as they finally slowed, a long shudder running down the column. They had spent days crossing the northern countryside of the Principality in a state of constant, coiled anxiety. Every wood they skirted and every deep, shadowed valley they picked their way through in pairs felt as if it could be hiding an ambush. It grinded on the men, and made the journey more difficult than it had any right to be.

  Theodorus had scouts riding ahead on the ridgelines and others keeping watch behind. Given the danger they were presently in, marching through northern territory, he would not have his company advancing blind.

  They completed the march in two days, forcing a punishing pace and stopping only long enough to water the animals and choke down a mouthful of bread. All the months of marching drills, the conditioning of the men’s bodies, the siege warfare they’d conducted - it all paid off on the hilly, punishing road. The men trudged without complaint, and when they halted, they set up camp almost without a word needing to be spoken.

  The prize for such endurance was the sight that rose before them now.

  Mangup towered ahead, its walls and cliffs seeming to grow straight out of the rock, reaching toward the clouds. The fortress loomed like a stone ship above the sea of hills, the Principality’s final bastion of hope and, for this small company, their own as well.

  They had made it.

  “My lord,” Charilaos rode up alongside the cart where Theodorus lay propped against a bundle of cloaks. His left arm was bound tight and immovable, the slightest jolt sending pain through the ruined elbow, his leg pulsing and throbbing with every rut in the road. “I will go hail the guards,” Charilaos said.

  The veteran had returned bearing the Doux’s message and three warriors under the Megas Doux’s direct employ, who now rode in a wedge around the cart to see Theodorus safely to Mangup.

  Theodorus nodded, and Charilaos spurred his horse forward into a gallop, heading for the postern gate. That was where Theodorus would be brought in. A bloodied Captain arriving through the main gate would send whispers racing through the city in moments, and that was the last thing needed. But the company could not be left leaderless either.

  “Stathis,” he said, turning to his second in command. “Set up camp here. I will speak with the Doux and he will send a messenger to you once we have everything in order. We will talk in detail inside the castle.”

  Stathis nodded, already scanning the ground for the best place to pitch tents and water the beasts. Theodorus was then ferried toward the postern gate with a small escort of his remaining veterans and Christos, four men in all.

  “We made it, my lord,” Demetrios said quietly. Relief softened his words, though his face was haggard, his eyes rimmed red with the proof of a sleepless night. He had ridden in the back of the cart almost the entire way, rarely leaving Stefanos’s side.

  Stefanos was laid down a bed of thatch and blankets so he wouldn’t be thrown about on the rough road. Every twenty minutes or so, by day and by night, Demetrios carefully spooned honey and water between Stefanos’s lips, coaxing him to swallow. He changed the linen around the wound whenever he could, fingers working while the cart jolted and rocked beneath him, doing what he could to keep the bandages clean.

  Stefanos never truly stirred. He remained pale and clammy, breathing in ragged little pulls, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was still clinging on. More than once the linen over his abdomen turned freshly bloody as the motion of the cart reopened small tears inside.

  His chances had not improved in the slightest. Theodorus knew it. In a way it felt cruel, seeing Demetrios fighting so desperately to keep him alive, only to buy him another day of pain and torture. The only mercy was that he seemed far from conscious through any of it.

  Theodorus had stayed by the boy’s side as well, gripping the boy’s hand, and cursing his negligence. In the deepest parts of the night, when the wheels rattled over stones and the men ahead trudged in silence, he had heard Stefanos whisper a name more than once from somewhere inside his fevered dreaming.

  Cassandra.

  His guilt had travelled with him every mile of the road, sitting heavier on his chest than the armour over his shoulders. He found himself praying, which was not something he could say he had done much of in either of his lives. He prayed to whatever hand had brought him here, begged it to spare the boy, so that Stefanos would not be another ghost to mark his failure.

  The cart rattled as it started up the incline leading to the city. By the time they had a clear view of the small, out-of-the-way gate, a full host of guards were already assembled, waiting for them. Their cloaks were edged in purple and their armour - fine mail worn under fitted breastplates, a rare luxury in the Principality - marked them as members of the Prince’s own guard.

  At their head rode a man whose copper hair made Theodorus’s heart jolt for a moment, thinking a Nomikos had somehow beaten him to Mangup.

  It was, in fact, Sir Silvanus, the captain who had once escorted Theodorus and the host of Tatar prisoners from the Probatoufrorio fort to the capital.

  “Long time no see,” Sir Silvanus said. His gaze raked over Theodorus and his entourage with a cool, assessing calm that missed little.

  “Sir Silvanus,” Theodorus inclined his head. “I hope you have been well.”

  “As well as one can be in such trying times,” Silvanus replied. “Come, we must make haste. I can see the situation requires it.” His eyes had already picked out the near-dying boy in the cart and the rough bandages on Theodorus’s leg and slung arm.

  “I would appreciate the haste,” Theodorus said, strain colouring each word.

  They were escorted through Mangup at a steady clip. The wheels clattered over paved cobblestones, a small luxury after the rutted country tracks. Stone houses clung to the slopes, their whitewashed walls and red roofs catching the afternoon light. People moved about with the habitual vigour of city life, blissfully unaware of the storm gathering over their heads. In the distance, the main keep loomed above the lower town, and beyond it Theodorus caught sight of the rounded dome of the Church of Gothia, glinting faintly through the haze.

  Almost as soon as they stepped inside the inner keep’s gate, a gangly, bald man was there, pacing tightly as if waiting to ambush them. He darted forward the moment he saw Theodorus.

  “Are you Captain Theodorus?” he blurted. He did not wait for an answer. “And oh! They undersold your disposition, you are maimed!”

  Before Theodorus could react, the man laid his hands on him without permission, fingers prodding gently but confidently around the wounded joint with a surprisingly practiced touch.

  “Swollen, and quite hot. Do you have any mobility in the joint? Any chills, any fever?” he fired off questions in rapid succession, barely giving Theodorus time to blink, let alone answer. Theodorus glanced toward Silvanus in silent appeal.

  Silvanus stepped in and placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, stilling his frantic movement. “Elias.”

  The man paused and finally looked up at him. “Ah, but of course! I did not introduce myself. I apologise.” He turned back to Theodorus with a quick, birdlike nod. “I am the master physician of the royal court. I was sent to examine you as soon as word reached us that you were injured, Captain. Now, with that out of the way, where was I-”

  He started to reach again, clearly intent on continuing his inspection.

  “He has a meeting with the Doux,” a high-pitched, nasal voice cut in from behind the physician. It did not sound pleased. “Stop your unnecessary dawdling and let me take him there.”

  The speaker was a short, thin man with black hair pulled back and oiled to a sharp point. If he remembered correctly, this was Mangup’s chamberlain, and not a man known for his patience.

  “Nonsense,” Elias protested at once, not pausing in his work. “Whatever meeting he has can wait until he is properly seen to. With this leg, climbing all those stairs is beyond the pale-”

  “I do not care,” the chamberlain snapped. “He is coming now. I have a thousand matters to attend to today and cannot loiter here as you do.”

  “OHHH!” Elias suddenly exclaimed, his attention dragged past Theodorus to the cart. “Get me wine-diluted opium, a litter, clean linen, and clear a space in the infirmary.” He sent out a series of quick-fire requests to a gaggle of maids that materialized as if out of thin air, and who looked more than accustomed to the frantic pace. “And fetch me the priest this instant!” he barked, already moving toward Stefanos.

  He began to run careful hands over the boy’s bloodstained tunic, feeling the extent of the wound through the cloth.

  Demetrios caught his wrist, eyes wild with exhaustion and fear, not wanting the stranger to make things worse.

  “May I?” Elias asked, his voice lowering with surprising softness, and after a heartbeat, Demetrios let go.

  “What happened?” the physician asked, bending over Stefanos as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

  “He was skewered over a day ago by a sword,” Theodorus said, forcing his mind into the steadiness of a report. “Low in the abdomen. We cleaned the wound as best we could, changed the bandages when they grew damp, and fed him water and honey little by little.”

  Elias nodded along, eyes intent on Stefanos’s face, his hands still moving lightly over the boy’s side.

  “He never woke.” Theodorus went on. “From the place of the wound and the bleeding, I suspect the kidney is what was struck.”

  “Mm.” Elias’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his nod grew firmer, as if that matched his own assessment.

  Two maids hurried back into the hall, skirts gathered in their fists, a third trailing behind with a small bundle of cloth. “Master Elias,” one of them panted, “the room is cleared. The infirmary is ready, and the Metropolitan is waiting.”

  “Good,” Elias said. He took the cup of wine one of the servants brought, watched them pour in the dark drop of opium, then slipped an arm beneath Stefanos’s head. “Easy now,” he murmured, and with surprising gentleness coaxed the mixture past the boy’s lips, massaging his throat until he swallowed.

  Only then did he glance up at the others. “Fine. The Captain can go,” he said briskly. “This one is more urgent. But I will expect him later to be looked at.” His gaze lingered on Theodorus’s arm and leg in a way that made it perfectly clear this was not a suggestion.

  The chamberlain snorted, but Sir Silvanus inclined his head. “I will deliver him to you myself once the Doux has done with him,” he said.

  Demetrios looked to Theodorus then, eyes shining with fear and exhaustion, and caught his forearm as if drawing strength from the touch. “I will see you later, my lord,” he said. His voice shook. It pained Theodorus to see him this fragile.

  “Of course,” Theodorus answered. He shaped his mouth into what he hoped passed for a reassuring smile, even if it felt thin on his own face.

  Demetrios turned away and followed Elias and the small procession of maids and servants as they bore Stefanos toward the infirmary. Theodorus watched them go until the curve of the corridor swallowed them.

  When he looked back, the chamberlain was glaring at him as if he were one more delay in a day full of them. He gestured sharply to another litter that had been brought in. “On you get. Or the physician will have my skin,” the short man said brusquely.

  With Christos and one of Silvanus’s men to lift and steady him, Theodorus allowed himself to be eased onto the litter. The chamberlain flicked his fingers in irritation and set off at a brisk pace, leading the oddly mismatched entourage through a side passage and into a small private room on the ground floor.

  It took Theodorus a moment to realise it was the archives they were being led to. Shelves groaned under the weight of scrolls and ledgers, and the air smelled of wax, knowledge, and dust. Lots and lots of dust.

  The Doux’s scarred bodyguard stood by the door, arms folded, one eye tracking every movement. He took in the number of people crowding in behind the Captain and frowned.

  “They will speak alone,” the bodyguard said, the words leaving no room for debate.

  There was a brief shuffling as the men eased Theodorus into a pelt-lined armchair with a small stool with which to rest his injured leg and withdrew. Once the door shut, the room felt smaller, but also strangely calmer.

  Inside, the Doux was already seated, waiting. Theodorus found he preferred this warm little nest of parchment and ink to the Doux’s austere office. The setting might have been softer, but the man in the chair opposite was as commanding as ever.

  “Commander,” Theodorus said, inclining his head and giving the closest approximation of a salute his bound arm would allow.

  “Captain,” the Doux replied, his deep voice filling the cramped space as he returned the nod. It was a small gesture, but one the Megas Doux did not give lightly.

  “I thought you had explicitly stated that your cover was not compromised,” he said, eyes settling on the bandages and sling.

  “At the time of writing the letter, it was not,” Theodorus answered.

  “What changed?”

  “I sent the letter,” Theodorus said, his mouth twisting into a lopsided, humourless smile. “The lord must have had agents following me and my retinue.”

  In truth, he suspected Hypatius had been the one to set those eyes on him. Despite all his efforts to rid himself of his rival, it had not slowed the man at all. In the end, he had won the game of chess, but lost the true contest in the game of intrigue.

  “They followed the servant I sent with the message,” he continued, “and must have realised he was heading for Mangup. After that, the conclusion was simple enough.”

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  It hurt to speak his failure aloud, but Theodorus had long since accepted the facts.

  “Do they know you accessed their correspondence?” the Doux asked, his tone tight.

  Theodorus shook his head. “I doubt it. The timing fits, but the lord had no reason to suspect foul play before I sent my message, and the forgery was well done. He has no reason to believe I was ever in his study,” Theodorus said. He had turned this question over in his mind often enough on the road to Mangup.

  “But can you be sure?” the Doux pressed. There was something buried under the words, a tension that did not belong only to Theodorus’s wounds.

  “No,” Theodorus admitted after a long moment. “It is only a supposition.”

  “It will have to be enough,” the Doux said, drawing in a slow breath through his nose.

  “What is going on, sir?” Theodorus asked. There was more beneath the surface from the way the Doux spoke.

  “The truth is we are trapped, Captain Sideris,” the Doux said. “We have to defeat this rebellion.”

  “Sir?” Theodorus frowned. “I thought that was already our aim.”

  “No. You do not understand.” The Doux leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking. “We must win in spectacular fashion, and in record time.”

  “Why?” Theodorus asked. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  “What do you know about the Privateer Initiative?” The Doux asked, and Theodorus was thrown off-tilt by the question.

  “I know the gist of it,” Theodorus replied. He had not followed every detail, but when he left the capital for Suyren it had already been in motion. Later news from Mangup had mentioned its progress, and the aftermath of the Tatar hostage deal, which he had thought a success compared to what it might have been. The privateer raids had simply been one more thread among many.

  “I will begin by saying that I take responsibility for that foolishness being allowed to pass,” the Doux said. His mouth twisted, as if the words tasted bitter. “That old fox Philemon pushed the initiative through and I couldn't stop him. We used stolen Genoese flags to seize and strip goods from mercantile ships passing near our sea lanes.” His face darkened. “But the latest target failed disastrously.”

  Theodorus’s eyes sharpened. “What target?”

  The Doux’s lips curled in a small, humourless smile. “Genoese military frigates.”

  Theodorus felt his blood run cold. Of all the reckless gambles they could have taken.

  “Indeed,” the Doux said. “The motion passed. The nobles, and even the Prince, buoyed by the meagre successes we had enjoyed so far, reached for a prize far too large. To seize even a few Genoese ships of the line might have changed the course of our sea ventures and given us a foothold in trade once more.” He steepled his fingers, his dark eyes catching the slant of light that fell through the narrow window. “But all of that is for nothing. Our privateers were caught. Our involvement was revealed.”

  Theodorus’s mind leapt to the obvious question. “Have the Italians reacted?”

  “Oh yes,” the Doux answered. There was a dangerous curve to his smile. “They have formally condemned us and demanded two thousand hyperpera in compensation from the Theodoran crown.”

  “Can we pay?” Theodorus asked, though he already suspected the answer. The Principality’s coffers had been under strain even before this disaster, and with a rebellion brewing, the burden would be worse.

  The Doux shook his head.

  “How much can we pay?” Theodorus pressed.

  “Nothing,” the Doux said simply.

  Theodorus’s eyes widened.

  “The treasury holds, at most, two hundred hyperpera at present,” the Doux continued. The number was laughable, even for a small realm like theirs and even without additional expenses, it was not even enough to maintain the bare court costs until the next harvest. Theodorus suspected even Iohannes’s own purse had matched that amount before he paid an extra portion of the tithe to the crown. Money that had ended up, ironically enough, in the hands of the men now rising in revolt.

  “But the goods we captured, did you not find a port to sell them to?” That was the main risk of privateering - one had to find a suitable port to sell the goods to. States that lacked the foresight to seek one out could soon find themselves selling their ill-begotten loot at a fraction of its price.

  "We did." The Doux gave a short, humourless laugh. “But all the raids were carried out by privateers funded by Philemon, so you can guess in whose pockets the money ended up.”

  It was a disaster. A sheer, unmitigated disaster.

  “We need to force a decisive engagement,” Theodorus said at once. He had thrown his lot in with the Crown because the Principality needed internal stability if it hoped to grow strong again, and because the man who could raise him higher than anyone else sat across from him now. Yet the scales were badly tipped. The rebels held the wealth, had hired hard-bitten mercenaries, and sat on ample supplies. The Crown was near bankrupt and staring down an Italian invasion.

  “You have reached the same conclusion I have,” the Doux said, pushing himself up from his chair. “We cannot hope to placate the Italians for long. We have nursed a long enmity with them, but do you know why we have not yet been conquered?”

  “Because we have not been worth the trouble,” Theodorus answered, expression grim.

  “Exactly.” The Doux moved around the desk and gestured toward a map of the Crimean peninsula half-buried under scattered documents. “Our mountains give us the defensive advantage, but we lost control of all our coastal settlements long ago. Even Kalamita was taken and held by the Genoese for a time. We kept it in the end only because of our alliance with the Venetians, and even that is gone now.”

  He paced slowly in front of the shelves, dark cloak stirring with each turn. “The Italians are creatures of profit first. Each time they tried to force a full conquest, the cost outweighed the gain. Our whole military doctrine has grown from that truth. We delay. We bleed them. We stay on the defensive.”

  “But now we must strike decisively,” Theodorus said, seeing the added layer of difficulty clearly.

  “Exactly, because the only thing the Italians value more than coin is their pride,” the Doux replied. “They will not take this transgression lightly.” He picked a folded missive from among the papers and held it out. The parchment was fine, the ink rich, the script elegant even at a glance.

  “Here is their latest response.”

  Theodorus unfolded it and read.

  To the Most Serene, though lately Ill-Advised, Prince of Theodoro,

  Know that the Signoria of Genoa is not interested in excuses, evasions, or artful words regarding the depredations committed by vessels under your colours and command.

  We repeat, for the final time, our demand for full restitution in the sum of two thousand hyperpera, in payment for the goods unlawfully seized and the affront offered to our honour and shipping.

  Your acts stand in direct violation of the truce and safe-conduct agreements concluded between our states. If we do not receive, without delay, at the very least a substantial advance on the aforementioned sum, you may expect suitable repercussions to follow.

  May prudence yet guide your council.

  Democrito Lercari, Consul of Caffa and Gazaria

  “You tried stalling them,” Theodorus said, catching the hidden subtext of the negotiations.

  “It was all we could do,” the Doux replied, spreading his hands. “The messenger nearly did not come back alive.”

  “So we need a victory so swift and so clean that the Italians see not weakness in our rebellion and chaos, but strength in our royal forces,” Theodorus said, giving the thought voice.

  “Precisely,” the Doux confirmed. “And the odds are stacked completely against us. They have more men, more supplies, and the advantage of time.”

  “And we only have this.” Theodorus’s gaze dropped to the letter he had sent a day earlier, the one that laid out the rebellion’s first military goals.

  “Captain Theodorus,” the Doux said, drawing himself up to his full height. He seemed, for a moment, less a man than something carved out of the same stone as the fortress. “I will not sugarcoat it. We are likely doomed. But if there is any path out of this mire, it lies in using the information you have brought us to the last drop of its usefulness.”

  His voice gathered force as he spoke. “We must devise a military plan so precise, so thorough, and so decisive that it will not matter that we have fewer militia, no money, and a realm on the brink of collapse. The Principality needs your skill. You brought us one miracle on the Tatar raid. You brought us another with this scrap of intelligence. Now you must help me and our commanders draw forth one more.”

  His gaze locked onto Theodorus, hard and unblinking. “That is an order from your Commander.”

  Theodorus straightened as much as his injuries allowed and saluted from his chair. “Sir, yes sir,” he said, mind reeling.

  Inside, his thoughts raced. The stakes had never been higher. A failed plan meant not just his death, but the fall of Mangup, and the Italians descending on what was left like vultures. One misstep now, and everything he had built since waking in this life would be swept away. If there was ever a time to be worthy of the faith others placed in him, it was now.

  The door closed softly behind the Sideris boy as he was escorted out, Panagiotis remained seated for a long moment, staring at the empty chair opposite him. The quiet lent weight to the figures turning over in his mind. What he had not shared with the Captain was that Philemon alone had already gathered close to a thousand men under his banner, as many as the crown and the Papadopoulos family could muster together. The odds were even dimmer than one would think.

  Panagiotis rose at last, his joints protesting, and made his way back to his office. The corridor outside was quiet, torches guttering low along the walls. When he reached the familiar room he crossed to the window on instinct, pushing the shutters open with his knuckles. Night had settled fully over Mangup. The courtyard below was a patchwork of shadow and the occasional lonely lantern, the sky above a black vault pricked with cold stars.

  Their chances were slim. He knew it in his bones, the way an old soldier knew when a line would hold and when it would break. But slim was not the same as none, and as long as there was even the ghost of a chance, he would fight to drag it into something solid.

  He was still looking out into the dark when a knock sounded at the door behind him. Three sharp raps, quick and hesitant. At this hour, that alone was unusual. Most of the castle was already abed.

  “Enter,” Panagiotis called, turning.

  The door opened. When he saw who stood there on the threshold, his eyes widened.

  The scene in the garden could not have been more perfect. Winter’s cold clung to the air, but the sun poured down bright and clean, its pale rays catching the faint outline of his dark curls. The wine in their cups was spiced and warm, kissing their lips and loosening their tongues until they traded jests that would have been called inappropriate anywhere else, but here felt wicked and wonderful.

  For once, Cassandra felt light. Truly light. She had long resigned herself to a life given to duty, to being married off for the good of her house, to a man she might respect but never adore. She had never expected someone who made her smile like sunshine breaking through clouds, someone who drew foolish verses from her pen, someone like him.

  Her father stepped into the clearing then, a soft smile spread across his face.

  “My little fawn,” he said.

  Cassandra nudged into his hand as he reached out to touch her cheek. His palm was rough, but warm, and beneath that touch she felt the familiar, solid sense of safety she knew with no one else.

  He let his hand fall away. “Did I not tell you not to trust the Captain?” he said. His voice lost its softness and took on a darker edge.

  “What do you mean, Papa?” she asked, turning toward him.

  “Do not listen to him, Cassa,” the Captain laughed, already slightly intoxicated, his joy infectious. Cassandra could drown in that sound. “Tell me about your mother.”

  The scene brightened at the mention. “Oh, she was the sun,” Cassandra said, and everything around them turned the colour of gold. She saw her mother’s hair, bright and flowing, raining light over them as her father spun her around among the trees they had loved to walk together, yellow light dappling the forest floor.

  “In truth, my lady…” The Captain stepped closer, producing a budding flower from the kaleidoscope of blossoms in the garden, flowers she had never seen in such number or colour. “I mean to ask for your hand.”

  The bud in his fingers began to open, petal by petal, blooming as widely as Cassandra’s smile.

  “Would you be willing to spend your life with me?” he asked.

  “A thousand times yes,” Cassandra breathed. At her words, her mother seemed to glow brighter, golden tears of happiness shining in her eyes.

  The flower bloomed fully. Nestled in its heart was a tiny folded note. A poem, Cassandra thought with excitement. Something he had written just for her. She lifted it free and brought the blossom to her face, breathing in its scent as she unfolded the paper.

  The ink on the note looked almost wet, dark as blood, scrawled in a hasty, jagged hand. There were only two short lines.

  Do not give away your heart

  He will only tear it apart

  Cassandra looked down in horror as pain lanced her chest. The perfect garden blurred as a hole tore through her, red and ragged, her gown darkening as blood spread. The Captain’s hand rested over the wound, fingers gentle as he pried her beating heart from her chest.

  “A great storm is coming,” he said, voice full of desperation as he pulled. “I must save us all.”

  Cassandra clawed at his wrist, struggling to keep her heart where it belonged. Not like this. Not taken by force. Not torn free.

  “Do not fight it, Cassandra,” the Captain said. His voice was heavy, sorrowful, as if this hurt him as much as it did her. “It will be over soon.”

  Her mother was weeping, golden tears streaming down her face. As they fell, the colour bled out of them, turning black like ink spilled across a page.

  “Do not trust men like the Captain,” her father rasped from somewhere behind her, his voice distant and rough.

  The letters on the note pulsed black and red, beating in time with Cassandra’s own heart as it throbbed in his hand, each pulse matching her hoarse screams. She fought until her strength ran out.

  When he finally tore the heart free, there was a strange, almost soothing rush of numbness. The pain grew distant, like thunder heard from far away. Sleep reached for her, gentle and cold.

  “Theodorus… what have you done…” she gasped with the last of her breath.

  “I must become the villain in this story,” the Captain whispered. A single silver tear slid down from his eye, catching the light as it fell. He leaned closer, his breath icy against her ear as her world faded to grey.

  “And you,” he said softly, “its victim.”

  Cassandra did not wake with a scream, but surfaced slowly, groggily, as if rising through deep water. The echoes of the dream clung to her chest, a phantom ache where her heart still beat.

  She was tucked into the cushions of the Nomikos common room, hair spilling over the edge of the couch, a warm blanket draped over her. For a moment she lay still, letting the world swim back into focus in blurry patches.

  “You’re awake,” a bass, familiar rumble sounded from above her. Only then did she realise her head was resting in someone’s lap. “Are you alright, little fawn?”

  It was her papa.

  “You were out cold, just sleeping on the cushion.”

  “Ah… yes, Father.” Cassandra hurried to sit upright, cheeks flushing crimson, embarrassed to have been found sprawled like a child. “I am afraid I had too much to drink,” she said. She remembered that much from the morning, at least.

  Her father raised an eyebrow. That was clearly not the answer he had expected.

  “I had a date with the Captain,” Cassandra added, her voice coming out softer, almost breathless at the memory.

  Her father’s eyes hardened at once. “That Captain is always up to mischief, it seems.”

  Something in his tone snagged at her. “What do you mean, Father?”

  He was quiet for a long while. The crackle of the fire filled the space between them. With each second of silence, another thin tendril of fear coiled in Cassandra’s gut.

  “The Captain is a traitor,” her father said at last.

  “What, Father?” The word came out as a croak.

  “He was working for the crown this entire time,” her father went on. “Selling our secrets. Plotting behind our backs.”

  Cassandra stared at him, unable to fit the image of the man she knew with the words she was hearing. “But we are also under the crown,” she began. Her father had always hated the royalty for the burden they placed on the north, and Cassandra held little love for them herself, but they were subjects of the Principality all the same. That had always been the way of things.

  “Not anymore.” Her father shook his head, and something in the simple movement startled her more than any shout could have.

  “What do you mean, Father?”

  “The crown has long toyed with our house, with our people. The time of living under their yoke is over,” he said, voice steady with conviction. Cassandra heard the truth in it, cold and solid.

  “Then we are in open rebellion?” she whispered.

  He nodded. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air tighter. They were now walking a knife’s edge.

  “And the Captain-”

  “Chose his side,” her father said harshly.

  “Not necessarily, Father,” she blurted. “He might yet be persuaded to our side. He even asked for my hand.” Her Father's eyes widened in surprise, then hardened all the more because of that piece of information.

  “Cassandra.” Her father reached for her, gripping her hand as if to brace her for a blow. “He killed Kyriakos.”

  Cassandra’s heart lurched and then seemed to stop. “Impossible.” Kyriakos might have been the black sheep of the family, a thorn in everyone’s side, but he was still family, and the blow wounded her. “But… why?” she managed.

  “To escape Suyren with the knowledge that we will revolt,” her father said. “He could not risk being exposed.”

  Cassandra’s eyes flooded. “Lies,” she whispered, the word breaking on her tongue. She simply could not believe it. Not of him.

  “I told you he could not be trusted, little fawn,” her father said. His expression was tired now, and sad, and that somehow hurt even more. Cassandra suddenly felt as if she were back inside the fogged nightmare she only half remembered.

  Cassandra wrenched her hand free and pushed past him, tears already blurring her vision. He called her name, but she did not stop. She fled the common room, skirts gathered in her fists, feet pounding alongside her heart.

  Lies. All lies, she thought wildly. She and the Captain were meant for one another. He was going to ask for her hand!

  She did not know how she found herself outside, only that the cold air slapped her face and the familiar path drew her onward. She ran to her mother’s oak, the great tree that stood at the edge of the gardens, its branches bare but still somehow sheltering.

  As she stumbled into the little clearing, she saw it at once. Resting on the worn wooden swing that hung from the lowest branch lay a single fiery orange tulip.

  Cassandra’s breath hitched. She stepped forward on trembling legs and picked it up, cradling the stem between shaking fingers.

  The date had not been a lie. They had been here, on this very patch of earth, talking away their worries and their fears, her head on his shoulder, the winter light slipping between the branches above. That much she knew. Yet when she tried to follow the path from this memory to waking on the couch, she found only a gaping hole. A stretch of nothing. What had happened between the garden and the common room? Where had the time gone?

  Was the Captain truly a traitor? Had he fooled her from the beginning? Her heart twisted painfully, pulled in one direction by all the fond moments they had shared - the roguish jokes, the stolen smiles, the back and forth - and in the other by her duty to her house, her father’s warnings, and those two terrible verses that still seemed to echo in her mind.

  Cassandra sank down at the base of the oak, pressing her back against the rough bark. The tulip rested in her lap like a tiny flame. She whimpered, then broke fully, sobs shaking her shoulders as she buried her face against the trunk.

  “Help me, Mother…” she whispered into the bark, voice raw. “Help me stop my heart from pulling itself apart.”

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