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“They were perfectly broken in by the time the fight was over, during which I was too busy to even notice my feet.” Agnar’s grin reveals a hint of white teeth. “At least I don’t spend twenty minutes folding a map into tiny precise squares. Tell me, do you align the creases by constellation or compass point?”

“Neither.” The silky edge in Sterling’s voice warns me to brace myself for something spectacularly vulgar. “I organize them by your mother’s⁠—”

“Enough! What are we, nine?” I tsk at them like a disappointed instructor. “It’s a matter of personal style. Each of you should use the grip that works best for you.”

By shoving open the heavy oak doors, I undoubtedly cut off one of Sterling’s foul-mouthed defenses of his meticulous map-folding system.

Secretly, though, I think there’s something endearing about his need for order in a fundamentally chaotic world.

When the doors swing open, the debate about swordplay techniques is forgotten. Flames crackle in the hearths of twin fireplaces, saturating the drafty space with cozy warmth. Two of the large windows are cracked open for ventilation. Candles flicker from low-hanging chandeliers and a few ever-lights glow from sporadic lanterns, shedding ample light on the papers scattered across the large round table. Though the chamber lacks the rest of the palace’s grandeur, the space is comfortable and efficient.

The six council members sitting at the table shift to face us, their expressions holding varying degrees of amusement that quickly morph into composed deference.

Wonderful. They probably heard every word of our conversation…particularly the part where I cut off Sterling’s commentary about Agnar’s mother by scolding them like a pair of schoolboys.

Duchess Breann Farlow smiles first. A thin woman with hair that recently turned more white than gray, the duchess has been in my corner since my arrival in Tirene. Rafe Bennett just shakes his head. A lock of wavy brown hair topples over one eye as he directs a pointed look at the two men beside me, basically confirming that the merchant guild master and the rest of the council overheard our conversation.

Nira Vipert arranges the skirt of her stunning burgundy gown and leans in to whisper to the man beside her. Always impeccably dressed, the beautiful woman resembles a queen more than I do considering I opted for a cream-colored tunic, black breeches, and my short sword.

After yesterday’s battle, I decided against wearing another dress.

Though I’ve visited this room many times over the past four months, I still envision the faces of the council members who betrayed us whenever I walk inside.

Not because I feel bad—I firmly believe that the world is a better place with those three gone. It’s just a shame that their passing also stole my grandfather and the dowager queen.

My chest aches at the sight of those empty chairs. Queen Alannah can never be replaced. We haven’t filled the other spots yet, though Bastian, who’s standing near the windows, is a welcome presence due to his extensive knowledge of the archives and the kingdom’s history.

I slide into an open seat as Sterling rounds the table, briefly running his hand across the back of what was once his mother’s chair, the one covered with thick cushions and closest to the fire. He quickly represses the flicker of pain on his face, a spasm of grief that squeezes my heart.

I recognize that look. I’ve worn it myself on too many occasions.

While the chamber holds its usual mix of afternoon light and lingering shadows, today’s air feels heavier, charged with tension that needles my skin.

“Your Majesty.” Ever the gentleman, Fenton Wick greets me with a polite smile that deepens the wrinkles around his eyes. “We were just discussing yesterday’s attack.”

I nod to him, then glance at Agnar. “Please give the council a full report.”

Agnar sinks into an empty seat across from me. “As most of you have heard, we were assaulted by the warrior statues. One moment they were stone, and the next they were moving and fighting. We were at the Victory Goddesses’ temple when one came alive, tearing free of the wall to walk like a man. Then the cursed thing started smashing any human it could reach. Weapons were ineffective and just skittered off the surface without even chipping them.”

“What of magic?” Other than a raised eyebrow, Dalya Ungar’s face reveals no hint of emotion. Over the last several months, the unshakable magenta-haired woman has proven to be a voice of reason many times over.

“Water had minimal effect, though Crown Prince Knox’s first attack seemed to knock one back momentarily.” Official meetings are usually the only time Agnar calls Sterling by his first name. “It wasn’t until Queen Lark unleashed her fire that we started to see results. The flames revealed something strange beneath their facades…some sort of light that resembled distant stars.”

We agreed beforehand not to share that Rose’s flame familiar revealed that oddity. If at all possible, we want to keep her out of the discussion entirely.

Duke Bron Dolf leans forward, a swoosh of blond hair falling across the young noble’s forehead. He bats it away with an impatient hand. “I’ve heard of such things happening in the Northern Kingdoms.”

Nira presses her lips together, her attention shifting from the duke to me. “I wonder if this relates to an ancient prophecy about walking stone.”

All I can do is shrug as I try not to shudder. Gods save us from any more prophecies. I’ve had enough destiny and fate to last several lifetimes, thank you very much.

“Crown Prince Knox,” Rafe dips a quill in ink and pulls a clean piece of parchment from the stack, “was there an issue with your water magic…faltering? Tell us more.”

Sterling’s lips ease into his lazy smile…the one that charms people into believing every word that emerges from his sinful mouth.

I know that smile all too well.

It’s a shield.