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His eyes widened. He could not tell if she was joking or not.

"Enough with the mind games." His voice sharpened. "Every few seconds I am His Majesty and then I am a weak king. Make up your mind."

"Fine. Weak king it is," she said calmly.

"What do you want?"

"To marry you," she said. "And take the Rathmor throne as its queen."

He laughed hard enough that his chest seared with it.

"Why would I make you my queen? Was it not some time ago that your father tried to arrange such a marriage and you declined?"

She smiled. "Perhaps. Though you cannot believe everything my father says."

She stood and crossed to the vanity and pulled out a comb and began to work it through her hair. As though the room were hers. As though the comb were hers. As though the position of Rathmor queen were already decided and she could move through these chambers however she pleased.

"Get out," he said. His voice came out quieter than he wanted. The pain in his chest would not allow otherwise.

She set the comb down. "Do not be stupid, weak king. You may want your precious Asharin, but she does not want you. And worse yet, your brother has given the court the greatest show of power a Rathmor king can give."

"Heirs," Sevrin said.

"Yes." She turned to him. "I have the mark. I am your best chance at producing one."

He opened his mouth.

"Even if your goal is to marry Asharin one day and crown her, you cannot do it in your current state. Colsar will take the throne before you get near her and your council will follow him because he, unlike you, has secured the kingdom's future."

"Fiorakis is my heir," Sevrin said.

"She is his daughter. Do not be naive."

The room was quiet.

"I do not want you," he said. "I want her."

"Yes. But you are weak. I am strong. And let us not forget that you were willing to marry that whore of a sister."

"Yvara," he said. That was a mistake, he wanted to add, but thought better of it.

"You are no use to her if you cannot keep your own kingdom." A pause. "And moreover, I am the closest thing to her that exists."

He grimaced. "You⁠—"

"We share blood," she said.

"What?"

"My mother is Alarnan." She shrugged. "More likely she is the daughter of one of my mother's sisters. Possibly Petunis. Though my mother was not known for making good decisions."

He knew he should argue. Question it. Accuse her of lying.

But he could smell it. All of it. It was the only reason he had tolerated her presence this long.

That familiar scent in her blood. Asharin's scent.

"How do I know you can bear children? Mark of Forizan or not, you are still a feeder."