The most terrible thing had already happened.

He walked calmly to the doors of his apartment and ensured that they were locked.

Please make sure they are well fed, he said, not directing the thoughts toward Ludivine but knowing she could hear them nevertheless, his cunning, beloved little liar. And that they are given comfortable places to sleep and tended to by healers, if required.

What’s happened? She was alarmed by something in his voice.

I’ve lost the woman I love and the home I love, he thought, and I fear that before this is all over, I will have to choose between them.

Ludivine was silent for a long time. Are you going to hurt yourself?

He laughed aloud, bitterly. Wouldn’t you be the first to know?

The truth was, he thought he might hurt himself eventually, but at the moment, even thinking about doing so required more effort than he could muster. He made his way to the bed, stripped off his tunic, his trousers. He stood staring at the tall, claw-footed mirror until he could no longer stand the sight of himself—his lean brown limbs and mussed dark curls, the shadows under his eyes, his chapped lips. He saw himself as Corien must see him, as Merovec and the Mazabatian queens must see him—ineffectual. Small. Craven. Dim and shabby beside his matchless Rielle. A mere human, soft and gullible. Someone had taken his throne, and he had run away and let him have it.

The Lightbringer, they called him. But in his tear-bright eyes, he saw nothing of light, nothing of the king he had once dreamed of becoming. He thought of Illumenor lying dark and quiet beside his bed and considered tossing it into the sea. His vision a glittering sheen, his throat a hot column of tears, he climbed into bed and closed his eyes. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but the stillness, at least, was peaceful. His limbs felt heavy with it.

If he could stay like that forever, he decided, even if it meant never leaving this bed, never seeing Rielle again, never setting foot on Celdarian soil again, he would be glad, for it would probably save everyone a great deal of trouble in the end.

Why fight any of this? He sent the thought to Ludivine, neither expecting nor wanting an answer, and let his sorrow come for him like rising black water.

• • •

Audric awoke only two short hours later when a wave of ice-cold water came splashing down onto his face.

Lurching upright with a gasp, he blinked awake and tried to make sense of what was happening. He had barely wiped his eyes when it happened again—a cold pane of water crashing down upon him.

Drenched, he tried to scramble out of bed, fumbling for Illumenor. But the linens were soaked and tangled about his legs, and he flailed as he stumbled to his feet, catching himself against the bedpost with a hissed curse.

He whirled, abruptly furious. It was full morning; sunlight was streaming through the windows, and his body sparked with it. Anger drew heat and light to his palms, which itched to hold his sword.

“Cover yourself,” snapped a familiar voice. “The princess is here, and she’s getting an eyeful.”

Audric wiped the wet hair out of his face, blinked, and saw two people standing a few paces away. One was Sloane Belounnon, Grand Magister of the House of Night—Tal’s sister, a prodigiously talented shadowcaster, and obviously annoyed. She still wore the fine black-and-blue suit she had worn to the wedding many days ago, though the fabric was now smudged with travel grime, as was her pale face. Her sleek, shoulder-length black hair was bundled messily at her nape.

Beside her, grinning, the castings around her wrists buzzing with recent use, was Princess Kamayin Asdalla—her skin a rich, deep brown, her hair kept short in tight, black curls. Underneath her crisp white jacket, a delicate golden chain cinched her iridescent gown at the waist.

She waved cheekily at him. “Good morning.”

Audric clutched the sodden linens to his hips. He only briefly thought about trying for some kind of dignified greeting. “What was that for?”

“Because you knew we had arrived and yet didn’t come down to greet us,” Sloane said briskly. “The entire Sun Guard has been out of their minds for the entire journey, wanting us to go faster, because in the absence of the Sun Queen, they want to protect you, the Lightbringer. And if you could have seen the look on Evyline’s face when she was informed that no, King Audric would not be coming down to greet her because he was still in bed and did not want to be disturbed…I could slap you. That woman has come to love you and Rielle so deeply, it’s as if you’re her own children, and she has left her family and her friends and her life behind in Âme de la Terre to come help you—they all have—and this is how you thank them for their sacrifice?”

For a moment, Audric couldn’t speak. She was right, of course, and it shamed him so completely that he shrank into himself. His numbness resettled around him after being temporarily shaken by the rude awakening, and he found that he didn’t care if Princess Kamayin saw him naked. He dropped the linens and retrieved his trousers, his rumpled tunic.

“Well?” Sloane’s voice bristled with impatience. She had always been the sharper one, and Tal the softer. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

He shrugged, weary but resolved. “I can’t see them.”

“You can’t see them,” she repeated flatly. “And what is that supposed to mean? How dare you spew that shit at me.”

Kamayin’s eyebrows shot up. “If anyone talked like that to my mothers, they’d spend the rest of their life in a dungeon.”

“Sloane’s known me since I was born,” Audric mumbled, tugging on his tunic. “She talks to me like that all the time.”

“Only when you deserve it.” Sloane folded her arms over her chest. “What do you mean, you can’t see them?”

“I mean…” He trailed off. How could he possibly explain that if he saw Evyline, and Fara, Ivaine, Maylis—Rielle’s devoted guards—it would be like losing her all over again? How could he describe the dark tide rising higher and higher inside him, blacking out all thought and feeling, leaving him numb, erased, irrelevant? Or his anger at Ludivine for her manipulations, his anger at Rielle for leaving him, his anger at himself for pushing her away?

And more than anything, his anger at Corien, which remained a distant thing, so titanic and boiling that his mind couldn’t fully grasp it and instead focused on the more immediate things, the smaller furies, the paler fears.

He looked at Sloane, helpless. “I can’t see them,” he said again in a whisper, and something changed on Sloane’s face. A softening. Slight, but real.

She nodded slowly, gave him a tight smile. “You should go back to sleep.” She came to him, straightened the collar of his tunic, glanced up at his dripping hair, and declared, with a kinder smile, “And you look terrible, it must be said. I’ll come again this afternoon to help you prepare for tomorrow.”