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First published June 28, 2022
“Is it monstrous to want what is owed you?”
“Men are so unsuited to power.”
Corayne laughed darkly. “Women aren’t terribly good at it either.”
Let your fear guide you.

“A girl, barely more than a child. Too small for the sword, too small for the task put in front of me.”
“Remember this moment, Marguerite. Remember that tear.” Erida watched the single drop fall. “It is the last one you will ever shed as a girl. You are a woman now, the last of your childish hopes and dreams bleeding to death before your own eyes. [...] There are no fairy tales in this world,” Erida said, her eyes going soft. “No charming prince will come to save you. No god hears your prayers.”
He had no skill in hiding his emotions, and Erida knew exactly why. He is a man. His emotions are not considered a burden or a weakness. Not like mine, which I must keep hidden, so men might feel a little less threatened and a little more strong.
“You have steel in your spine, Your Majesty. Hold on to it. But bend when you must, lest you—and your crown—break.”
“Perhaps you should stop worrying about their hearts, and tend to your own instead.”
“You’d think I’d be used to this by now.”
“Sorasa?”
“Death,” Dom clipped. “Though I suppose they are interchangeable.”
Andry tried to smile, if only for Dom’s sake.
“There’s no getting used to it,” he said quietly. “Not even for us mortals.”
“Let the fires wash us clean. Blessed are the burned.”

“Maybe we belong to each other, we who belong nowhere.”
The tea was the hearth in their cottage. It was a cup of mulled wine back home in Lemarta, the winter sea gray in the harbor. The tea was Dom’s shadow and Sorasa’s sneer and Andry’s eyes. Her mother’s laugh. All things that held her up, even when the world tried its best to knock her down.
“Too much power. It rots, and we will rot with them.”

“This world will eat you if given the chance.”
“Very well, Corayne an-Amarat,” he said, and her smile flared like a sunbeam. Behind her, all but Sorasa smiled too. “I will sleep and dream of victory.”
Domacridhan slept and dreamed of death.

”You said as much,” Taristan growled.
“You will not, I promise you,” Taristan growled.
Taristan stood between them but said nothing, glowering in his usual way.
“This is a waste of time,” Taristan growled under his breath.
“This man’s never worn armor in all his life,” he growled under his breath.


“She gasped one breath after another, her teeth bared. She felt like a lioness, like a sword, powerful and ruinous.”
“Corayne sat up and took the tea. She sipped at it, letting the embracing warmth ripple through her. It felt different from the heat of her dreams, the boiling inferno of Asunder and What Waits. The tea was the hearth in their cottage. It was a cup of mulled wine back home in Lemarta, the winter sea gray in the harbor. The tea was Dom’s shadow and Sorasa’s sneer and Andry’s eyes. Her mother’s laugh.”




“Exasperated as she was, Erida couldn’t help but find quiet amusement in her own circumstance—and Corayne’s. So much of the world rests on the shoulders of two young women, with men squawking at our edges.”



“She felt like a mother hen leading chicks through a tornado.”
