Princess Ananke Armorov.
She—Ana—couldn’t be. She had no recollection, no memory, no proof. She was Ana—she was the daughter of ship traders. They had died in mercenary raid, and she and Di had escaped. Siege found them drifting on the far side of Iliad, and healed her wounds, and raised her.
She was not an Ironblood.
Princess Ananke Armorov had died in the Rebellion. She had burned to death, and Ana pitied the girl, because she knew what it felt like to burn.
Her stomach clenched in fear.
Burns. Like the burns on the side of her face. The scars. But hers were from the raid. Siege said they were from a ship explosion.
Siege said.
“There was once a fire,” Robb said, his voice so loud it crackled, “that set the North Tower ablaze—”
“Silence!” the Grand Duchess hissed, and turned her scrutinizing gaze to Ana. “What game is this?”
“No game, Your Grace—”
“My granddaughter is dead, young Valerio.”
Robb lifted his hand to Ana. “She survived, Your Grace.”
The old woman looked as if she wanted to break Robb in two on her knee, the rage on her face was so potent. “Then how did the girl escape?” She turned her vicious gaze to Ana. “How did you survive when no one else did?”
Ana’s mouth went dry. Because there was a gap in her memory, an expanse of blurry images she couldn’t make out. “I—I don’t—I don’t know, Your Grace. I can’t remember—”
“A convenient excuse,” said the Iron Adviser dryly, “for a girl pretending to be—”
“I don’t pretend to be anyone I’m not,” Ana snapped, her voice rising, echoing off the walls, remembering the words Di had told her the evening before when he’d braided her hair. It felt like a lifetime ago. “I am Ana of the Dossier—”
“Send the young Valerio on his way,” the Grand Duchess interrupted. She was shaking, so old and brittle she could fracture apart from her anger alone. “And you, girl—you are a terror to this kingdom. I have seen enough. On my word of iron and stars, you, Ana of the Dossier, are found guilty of treason—”
“No, Your Grace!” Robb cried.
“—and hereby sentenced to death.”
Before she could take a breath, Messiers swarmed toward her like a tidal wave to seize her. She struggled against them, but there were too many, and each time she tried to push away, they held on tighter. This was not how she thought she’d die. She wanted to die fighting. On a ship. Surrounded by nothing but light and space and sky.
She wasn’t royalty—she wasn’t the Goddess. The girl of light. If she were, then she could have protected Mokuba. She could have shut down Lord Rasovant’s ship, rescued Barger.
She could have saved Di.
But she hadn’t. And there would be no tombstone, no grave—and no one would remember him.
Where was the justice in that?
The thought broke something inside her, something so deep it reverberated through her soul. Where was justice at all? Where had it ever been?
If there was justice, Lady Valerio would be here, answering for Wick’s death. Lord Rasovant would be standing here in judgment instead, answering for the monsters he’d created on the Tsarina.
She was innocent.
Count your bullets, Siege had said, but the count was still at zero and yet here she was. Sentenced to death. For trying to save her best friend?
There was no justice in that.
With a scream, she tore against the Messiers that pulled her away, their grips bruising her. They clamped on harder, but she knew their weakness—like she knew Di’s when they trained in the cargo bay. She slammed a foot into one of their knees, and the Messier buckled, and crashed into the one beside it, knocking them both off balance, and she twisted out of their grips.
She spun back toward the doors, toward the exit, toward freedom, but a hand snaked into her hair and grabbed ahold of it near her scalp.
And pulled.
The Royal Captain dragged her back and pressed a lightword against the side of her neck. “Be silent,” she hissed.
Tears pooled at the edges of Ana’s eyes. She would not be silent. It was not a virtue she’d learned from Siege.
“She’s a murderer!” Ana shouted up to the old woman on her throne, the Royal Captain pulling harder at her hair, the blade sizzling against her skin. “You HIVE innocent Metals, and you kill everyone who disagrees with you. That’s not justice—that’s being a coward!”
“Silence!” the Royal Captain barked, slamming the hilt of her sword into Ana’s jaw, sending her to the ground.
“Ana!” Robb cried as Messiers caught him, twisting back his arms, and held him back. He squirmed against them, but from the look of pain on his face, his side must’ve started hurting again. “Your Grace, please—”
The Royal Captain raised her blade, readying to strike.
The Grand Duchess raised a hand. “Wait, Viera.”
The Royal Captain paused.
Ana glowered up at the Duchess and spit a mouthful of blood onto the plush runner, her hands bound behind her tight and uncomfortable.
The Grand Duchess studied her.
Just kill me, Ana thought. Just get this done with.
“Fine—if Robbert Valerio truly believes a dirty little girl like yourself could be my granddaughter, then who am I to call him a liar?” asked the Grand Duchess. “The Goddess will show me the truth. Fetch the crown.”
The Adviser gave a start. “But Your Grace—”
“I did not ask for counsel, Gregori.”
Yielding, the Adviser gave a short bow and left through the back hallway, as the Royal Captain forced Ana to her feet, unlocking her handcuffs. She rubbed her wrists so no one would see her hands shaking.
A few moments later, Lord Rasovant returned with the circlet of metal, the rust like bloodstains across its pointed edges.
The Iron Crown.
She had never seen it before. It was said that a thousand years ago, the Armorov bloodline had carved the crown from the Goddess’s heart, and only those worthy could wear it without its rusting. But Ana had never seen the Goddess in all the seven years she’d flown across the kingdom. Not in the sky, or in the worlds, or in the stars—she’d never seen the Goddess anywhere.
If she was the girl of light, then there was no Goddess.
But what if you were looking in the wrong places? a voice in the back of her head asked.
The Grand Duchess took the crown, and rust bloomed across her fingers where she held it. “Come, see if this crown fits; and if the Goddess decides you are unworthy, then both you and the Valerio boy will be sentenced to death.”
“But Robb’s innocent,” Ana argued, even though he probably deserved death just for dragging her into this. “He shouldn’t be—”
The old woman extended the crown. “Take it.”
She glanced back at Robb, and he nodded as if to say, Go on. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to drive his face into the Goddess-damned floor. How could he bet his life on the crown somehow not rusting for her? Because it would.
Wouldn’t it?
She was afraid as she took the cold metal crown. It was heavier than expected, and colder, too, the tines sharp enough to cut. A small crowd had gathered in the doorway, mostly servants and royal guardsmen, and they leaned in, holding their breaths, waiting for her death sentence.
Her hands shook.
This was the end, and she wished it weren’t here. She wished it were somewhere in the stars, beside her best friend. She just wanted to see him one more time. Being near Di had filled her with so much light and goodness that every moment without him felt like suffocating in space. He was gone, and there was no rescuing him. There was no way back. If she’d never boarded the ship, if she’d stayed on the Dossier like Siege had asked, maybe Di would be alive.
And maybe they would have had more time to say good-bye.
Goddess bright, let me see Di again, she prayed for the first time in her life, and pulled one hand away.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“It didn’t rust,” murmured the Royal Captain—and the young Cercian fell to her knees, touching her forehead against the cold marble floor. “Your Grace.”
She stared in awe at her fingers, dirty with blood but clean of rust. There was some mistake. She was still dreaming. She was not . . . she could not be . . .
But then one of the servants in the entryway fell to his knees, then the Royal Guard, then Robb, like dominoes tipping over. The Iron Adviser lowered himself to the floor and pressed his face to it, and the Messiers bowed with him.
And finally, the Grand Duchess stood from her twisted throne, and bent as low as her old age would let her, until Ana was the only one left standing.