I laugh. I can’t help it. “Did you honestly risk your life, and potentially your crown, on a little carrot of information I dangled in front of your nose? How do you know I was telling the truth? Prisoners spin all sorts of lies to save their necks.”
“I saw your face the last time I came to your cell—when you were covered in blood. You were ready to work with Hadassah.”
“Unfortunately, Hadassah doesn’t exist.”
“Maybe not in that incarnation, but she and I want the same things. IamHadassah.”
“What you are is a fool.” I close my eyes and focus on the blazing heat of the Zemyan sun. It’s even more punishing than a suit of lamellar armor in high summer, steaming my flesh like overcooked potatoes. Sweat collects beneath my arms and runs down the sides of my face, and the worst part is, I can’t summon a single puff of cold to cool my burning skin.
The gods and universe are definitely mocking me. The circumstances are too targeted to be a coincidence—the girl forged of ice, melting into nothing.
Ivandar huffs out several long breaths before asking, “Does it make you feel powerful, being so cruel?”
“I’m not cruel. This is just who I am.”
“Or is it the armor you hide behind?”
I bristle. My fingers automatically move to tighten my ponytail, but the slashed pieces are too short to tie back. “I don’t hide behind anything,” I growl. “I framed my sister for a massacre. I sentenced my cousin to prison. I methodically removed every person who stood in the way of my promotion, as if they were a burr clinging to my cloak. Would you call any of that an act?”
“No,” Ivandar admits, “but it’s never too late. We can always change our course, set our sails to a different wind.”
“Spare me your inspirational drivel,” I groan.
That finally shuts the prince up.
For a moment.
I feel his shadow pass over me. Feel his eyes bearing down on me, as hot as the merciless sun.
This is pathetic. Get up.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I shoot up from my back and glare at the Zemyan prince.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything,” Ivandar retorts, sitting precisely where he was before—slumped and shivering in the sand like a drowned cat—but I know better than to buy into his illusions. I felt him there, looming over me.
“Don’t toy with me, Prince.”
“I haven’t said or done anything,” he insists. “The salt water has gone to your head.”
“Speaking of going … shouldn’t you be running back to Karekemish? You have quite a lot to straighten out.”
“You know I can’t return. Not until I have damning evidence against Kartok. And in order to find that, I need you to tell me what you know.”
I fold my arms, prepared to ignore him until he either leaves or perishes beside me, when the voice comes again. Louder and more adamant than before. Only now that I’m paying attention, I don’t know how I ever thought it was Ivandar. Because it sounds like me—only sharper. The surest, most unflinching version of myself. The commander still buried deep within me—revealing what my tortured, water-addled mind couldn’t piece together.
Open your eyes, Ghoa. The answer to everything is literally sitting in front of you.
My gaze flicks again to Ivandar—filthy and dripping but unmistakably Zemyan. His clothes may be soaked and slashed, but the material is luxurious and the royal sea green marks him as someone of consequence. He’s the type of prisoner who would guarantee respect for the captor. Maybe even merit reinstatement. Especially if the prince can be used to turn the tide of the war.
Empress Danashti may have sided with Kartok regarding my torture, but I have a feeling her choice would be different if her son’s life were at stake. I can use Ivandar to drive the Zemyan troops out of Ashkar, then I’ll celebrate my victory by thoroughly punishing every last one of my double-crossing warriors.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Ivandar demands, bringing me back to the beach.
“Like what?”
“With that disturbing smile.”
A dozen snappy remarks dance on the tip of my tongue, but I blow them out on a long, weary breath. This will only work if he doesn’t suspect my motives. Which means I can’t change my tune too quickly. The shift must feel natural, logical, and, most of all, like his doing.
