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The King of Vallahan bristled, that impassive expression vanishing. “No such thing occurs within my borders—”

“We know of Koschei,” the Duke of Bernion said darkly.

The Mistress of the Unseen sighed heavenward, pure dramatics. “He is but a petty sorcerer playing at being a death-god. We have no use for him.”

I gave her a flat look. “You don’t sound even halfway convincing.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could snap a response, the duke cut in, “Our spies have long been aware of his presence. They prowl the mountains around his lake, ever watchful. If he so much as breathes in Montesere’s direction, we hear of it.”

“And are these reports,” Rhys asked, his impeccable calm settling around him, “to keep your forces prepared against him? Or to better understand an ally?”

“Koschei is no ally to Montesere,” the duke insisted. The vizier and the Mistress were noticeably stone-faced, as were the Vallahan royals.

Rhys surveyed them one by one, but said to none of them in particular, “I hope, for all your sakes, that what you say is true.”

“Is that a threat?” the Prince of Vallahan demanded. “Can we not ally with whomever we please? Or will you shove your nose into that business as well?”

Rhys studied his nails again. “It is simple advice. Whatever Koschei might have promised you, whatever the prize, it will not be the blessing you think it is.” He flicked his eyes up to the King of Vallahan, to the Duke of Bernion. “Whatever he has said, I would advise against believing him.”

“We have no contact with Koschei the Deathless,” the Mistress seethed. “To engage with him would provoke any number of enemies against us—not only you. We are not so foolish. You’re inventing things.”

“The world has gone mad enough these days,” Rhys said coolly, even as every part of me wanted to scream liar in her face. “I don’t have a need to invent anything.” He went on before anyone could respond, “But the advice was meant in kindness.”

No one responded to that bit of truth. Not even the duke.

There were several territories on the continent who might be willing to fight against the alliance of Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan. We had tried since the war with Hybern to contact them, to no avail. They wanted nothing to do with us, our treaty, or any conflict. It was no small relief that they wanted no contact with Rask, Montesere, or Vallahan, either—Mor had discovered that our enemies had also been trying to woo them, with as little success as we’d had.

Mor asked into the sudden quiet, as if it were some conclusion, “So you’re still set on this invasion, then?”

Their silence served as confirmation. Something low in my gut twisted.

Mor slammed a hand on the table. “A force of Fae marched for the humans’ sake during the War. We marched for them.” She pointed to the King of Vallahan, her brown gaze lit with dismay. “Your father marched for them. You’re really going to spit on his memory, his sacrifice, and the sacrifice of your people, by destroying the cause he fought for?”

Something like shame and sorrow kindled in the King of Vallahan’s deep-set eyes.

But his wife shrugged, again stroking her fur cloak. “The world has changed. What was once a lofty ideal of two lands, two peoples, has become a nightmare. You will find that many of those who once believed in your cause have lived out the reality for five centuries now—and found that some things were, in fact, better before the War. We are not so proud as to refuse to admit that we might have been wrong then. Just as you, with your new treaty, are wrong now.”

With that, the Queen of Vallahan stood, her son with her, merciless as the frozen land she ruled.

The grand vizier and the Mistress rose, too. The King of Vallahan and the Duke of Bernion followed after a beat, albeit reluctantly.

“We’re done here, I take it,” Rhys said softly, remaining seated.

The duke inclined his head. “We came out of respect for you. I came out of affection for her”—a nod toward Mor, glowering at all of them. “She made a valiant effort to convince us.”

This couldn’t be happening. Another war, another invasion, humans enslaved—

“Perhaps you have anticipated this for some time,” the Mistress crooned. “And that is why you gathered the Trove.” She gave me one of those hideous, beatific smiles. “In your deepest heart, you knew we would not be swayed. And I warn you now: To use that Trove is to damn your eternal soul. The Unseen shall punish you and yours for it.”

I bared my teeth. “I don’t answer to the Unseen.”

“Perhaps that is part of the problem,” the Mistress chided. “There are no gods left, no true Mother to guide Prythian. She has found your souls wanting and abandoned you. You are a godless, forsaken land—”

“That is beside the point,” the Duke of Bernion cut her off, earning a glare. But he lifted a hand, and the stone doors of the chamber groaned open, the icy sea air bursting in like a pack of wolves. “We came here to be very clear: There shall be no new treaty. And we reserve the right to arm ourselves, as you have done.” Though his words were firm, a sort of defeated weariness lingered about him.

The Prince of Vallahan shoved past the duke’s seat and toward the door, all swagger. “There are other weapons out there in the world, lost and forgotten.” He smirked over his shoulder. “But not for long. They stir, both Made and those imbued with ordinary, wicked magic. Awoken, perhaps, by this death-lord you speak of.”

His father gave him a sharp, reproving frown.