At this, Ferdinand nodded.
“Mother has been very clear—we need to mitigate Inés. We don’t know what she is waiting for, but we will be ready. In the meantime, this is what we can do to ensure no further damage.”
Amarande drew in a thin breath. “When will you be introduced?”
“Sunset tomorrow. The announcement decrees have been written and are being distributed throughout the Sand and Sky, announcing my coronation.”
Amarande’s mouth went desert dry.“Coronation?”
“They are naming me king. There is no law about age here—it was rewritten for Father.”
Yes. Father became king at fifteen. Two years before he wed.The laws were different from the ones Renard had navigated. Rewritten for the right ruler—yet not rewritten for her.
And just like that, her claim would be erased.
Amarande’s grip strangled the knife hilt. Her voice roughened. “Ardenia is my home, my kingdom, not yours. What do you care of Ardenia? Don’t answer that, you care nothing of it other than of the power it gives you.”
“I don’t care about power—”
“You’re stealing my throne, of course you do. You don’t wish to lie but I highly doubt you give a flying fig about stabilizing a land you’d never seen until days ago.”
“Ardenia, my father, my true mother, you—they are fresh grains of knowledge, but it is incorrect to assume I won’t do anything for them simply because they’re new to me.”
She took another step forward. “Such a diplomatic answer—not a lie, yet not the truth. Mother taught you well fromthe Warlord’s tent.”
Amarande raised a brow and dared him to give an answer. If he really wanted to commit to a life of truth, a confirmation of what Amarande thought she saw would be vital information to relay to Luca—if she could escape this place. And armed with her brother on the defensive, she could nearly taste the fresh air of freedom.
When Ferdinand didn’t respond right away she took another step toward him, and continued to press. “If you are going to lie outright, don’t waste that chance here. I saw our mother in the Warlord’s tent. Which means, by your own description, you were there, too.”
Ferdinand leveled his gaze, so much like their father’s. Though he was defenseless and backed against a wall, his words were calm and measured. Everything she was not in that moment. “You always knew who you were and what power you held. I knew nothing other than what my mother told me and even then I lived a lie.”
It was true that Amarande always knew who she was, but she’d been wrong about the power she held and under what circumstances she would hold it—or have it stolen away.
“You confirm it then? Mother is the Warlord?”
He didn’t answer.
A foot away from him now, Amarande gripped the knife tightly, turning over the options. Stomach. Throat. Chest—no.
Unbidden, the memory of Renard’s death flashed before her. His storybook features screwed up in surprise before draining of color. Lifeblood blooming crimson across the white fabric at his chest before spreading black on the aubergine of his jacket.
She wouldn’t kill Ferdinand, only strike him hard enough to leave her mark. The princess raised the knife. “Tell me.”
Ferdinand lifted his hands in surrender. “Please, Sister.”
Amarande hesitated. Words faltered on her lips. In that slight pause, he took advantage. One long arm swept up the princess’s loose boot and flung it directly at her face. She blocked it with a forearm but in that second lost sight of her brother.
And that was her mistake.
When Amarande had full view of him again, she saw his hand slipping out of his own boot. The cool edge of a blade caught in the filtered light. In his hand. And then not.
It sliced through the air, quick as the strike of a Harea Asp, the knife pinning her right between the tendons that sewed her knucklesin place. Impaled, Amarande’s hand flew open, dropping the dagger. The blow spun her backward and she fell. In two steps, Ferdinand retrieved Amarande’s fallen knife, wrenched her uninjured arm back and clamped a shackle on her wrist—face placid and determined, looking just like Koldo.
Amarande kicked at him, going for a third strike on his damaged knee. But without leverage it was useless. Her free hand scrambled to gain purchase on something—his hair, his ear, the collar of her father’s tunic he had no right to wear—but her fingers didn’t seem to follow orders with a blade lodged between the tendons.
Ferdinand clamped a matching shackle to her injured hand. His warm fingers wrapped around her own. She struggled against his grip. Again, he leveled their father’s eyes on her, steady and calm, though he was breathing hard.
“Please hold still as I remove the knife, Sister. I do not want to damage your hand further.”
