"Nothing irreversible. Yet." He pulls a small glass vial from his pack and sets it on the table between us. "During tonight's ceremony, when you make your royal toast—the final one—you drink this instead of wine."
"Poison."
"A sacrifice," he corrects with desperate conviction. "Your death will not only void the treaty that binds your people to these savages, it will create chaos. It won't start a war with us, my lady. It will starttheirwar. Ghazrek's rivals will smell blood, the clans will turn on each other, and they'll be too busy tearing their own throats out to ever threaten our borders again."
The cold logic of it makes the room tilt. This is a political assassination, and I am to be the willing weapon. The trap closes, and for a moment, I can't breathe. He's offering me a choice between my life and the lives of two children.
"And if I refuse?" My voice is a whisper.
His expression hardens, and he reaches into his pack again. This time he pulls out a small wooden horse, crudely carved but clearly made with love. I recognize it immediately from the nursery.
"Then two innocent children might not make it home from their grand adventure," Garrett says softly. "They're safe for now, comfortable and well-fed. They think they're playing a game, helping some nice humans with an important task. But their continued safety depends entirely on your cooperation."
The wooden horse falls from my nerveless fingers. "Where are they?"
"Somewhere they can see your stronghold but won't be found by searchers. They're being entertained with stories and games, told they're brave helpers in something very important." His voice carries mock sympathy. "We'd hate for them to learn the truth about their situation."
"You bastard."
"I'm a patriot. I am risking two children to prevent a war that would kill thousands." He gestures to the vial. "Your death creates the political chaos we need. Your family's honor is restored. And two children get to grow up safely."
I stare at the poison, my hands trembling. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"
"Because live children who can tell stories about getting lost during the queen's coronation are much more valuable than dead ones. The moment you collapse, riders will be sent to 'find' them and bring them home as heroes."
"I need time to think."
"Of course. But remember—if you refuse those children will always wonder why their Queen Lady hasn't come to save them." He stands, leaving the vial on the table. "They speak of you constantly, you know. 'Queen Lady this, Queen Lady that.' They trust you completely."
The words are expertly chosen, designed to make me feel responsible for their fear rather than him. But knowing it's manipulation doesn't lessen its effectiveness.
After he leaves, I sink into the nearest chair. He hadn't just brought a threat; he'd brought the weapon. My weapon, to be used against myself. My hands are trembling, not with fear, but with a rage so cold and sharp it feels like swallowing ice. He thinks he’s trapped me. He thinks my only choice is to die for his political games. He’s underestimated me.
I think of Lavi's tiny hands patting my cheek, of Jorik's quiet pride. They are counting on me. My mind flashes back tomy mother's library, to the stolen books and the hours spent learning. My old tutor’s words echo in my mind, a mantra of survival.
Always know the cure before you risk the poison.
I stand, my movements no longer hesitant but precise. My decision is made. And it will require every ounce of skill I possess.
GHAZREK
The late afternoon sun slants through the high windows of the armory, the air thick with the smell of oiled leather, cooling steel, and sweat. I unbuckle the final strap of my cuirass, letting the heavy plate fall to the stone floor with a clang that echoes my own bone-deep weariness.
"Three dead. For a feint," I say, the words tasting like ash. I run a hand over my face, my skin gritty with the dust of the eastern passes. The names of the fallen warriors—Vukko, Radan, Zorko—are a fresh wound in my mind. Good warriors. Loyal. Dead for a reason I do not yet understand. The rage is a cold, hard knot in my gut. I will have vengeance for them. But first, I must have answers.
"Aye, Warlord," Captain Bren says from across the room, his own movements stiff as he sheds his armor. His face is young, but the exhaustion in his eyes is ancient. "The Ironjaws weren’t fighting for territory. They fought to kill and to delay. They drew us out, made us chase shadows, while their main force slipped away clean. It felt... wrong. I've never seen Ironjaws move so fast, or with such discipline."
"Their timing feels wrong," Elder Thrakk rumbles. He entered the armory moments after our return, his face a grim mask. "It feels coordinated."
"It is," I say, my gaze fixed on nothing. "A raid on one side, spies on the other." I look up at Bren. "The human envoys?"
"Still in their camp, Warlord. But two of them rode out again before dawn. Our scouts tracked them toward the eastern approaches before losing the trail in the rocky ground near the old watchtower."
The pieces click together with sickening certainty. A distraction to draw my attention to the border, while the humans finalize their real plan. "They're still eating our food, breathing our air, and using our territory for their schemes."
I leave the armory, my mind seething in a cold fury. I need to see my mate, to reassure myself that she is safe from the plots swirling around us. I check the Hall of Memory first, then the great hall, but she is in neither. I find Greta, the head cook, overseeing the final preparations for the evening's feast.
"Have you seen the Queen?" I ask.
