assumed he would one day be her king. A fair assumption, never needing further analysis, because Mora had never once imagined losing her place. Losing her future. Her identity.
And this present life killed her slowly. The restrictions on her behavior, her voice, her heart—all of it chafed Mora raw. She could not disagree with anything, not act for her own benefit, nor even for a friend without casting a shadow upon them. She could not be herself, she could not be strong.
Banna Mora thrust to her feet, jerking the Blood and the Sea off her finger. No more sitting feeling sorry for herself. She had to act: that was the only way forward.
If the Blood and the Sea were the thing giving her hope, tying her to the past, she had to get rid of it.
She stuffed the ring back into the inner pocket of her gown, just under the collar of the bodice. Hooking her finger in the trapdoor’s latch, she threw it open and blew out the candle.
Cold wind carried the murmur of Lionis Palace to her ears, the constant, rough noise of humanity, and the scent of the river. Mora strode along the ramparts, past a few palace guards taking a break from duty. She lifted her skirt to hurry down the tower stairs, then continued purposefully through the airy corridors of the palace.
Once, these corridors had belonged to her. The marble and pale limestone, the pillars and polished wood panels, the carved windows and balustrades, the peaked arches and sitting rooms, the paintings and statues and gardens. All of it. Hers.
Mora slowed to touch the smooth curve of the wall and breathe in the pine and clove smell of a fresh wreath hanging there. Winter smells, the air of home.
This would be the end. She was choosing it, not Hotspur. Not the Wolf of Aremoria.
The next palace page she saw, Mora asked after Prince Hal. A moment later another page dashed up to her with the news Hal was in her bedchamber. At midafternoon.
Banna Mora set her jaw and did not pause to speak with the few courtiers she knew and liked, nor did she bother to nod at those she mistrusted. Usually she did both, knowing her life depended on maintaining a careful balance of independence and humility. When Rovassos was king, Mora had enjoyed the game, lived for the intricate dance of loyalty. Now it grated on her, offensive and wounding.
The current heir to the throne of Aremoria kept her rooms in an old study, transformed incompletely into a bedchamber and sitting room. Mora knocked to no response. Flattening her hand, she pounded with the heel and called Hal’s name. When again there came no answer, Mora grasped the handle and shoved open the door.
Light poured into the study from the tall balcony windows, illuminating the large room as it had always been, but for new purple hangings and a rather more complete set of wine and liquor bottles on one of the bookshelves. Books were stacked on the sofa, several half open, and a crumb-covered plate waited on the round table to be cleaned, beside a cup fallen on its side, the dregs of dark wine staining its rim.
Mora frowned and closed the door, then went to the small arch and stepped down into the bedchamber itself.
Hal Bolinbroke, Prince of Aremoria, was sprawled facedown and sideways across the bed. Pillows had slumped on the floor, the quilt was mussed beneath her, and one boot still clung to her foot. The hearth was black. Hal’s back swelled slowly, stopped, and deflated, then did it again, more raggedly. Mora stared.
The prince was a mess. Mora understood the responsibility was hard; the meetings, duties, and conflicting agendas were enough to need a drink or a fuck to sleep at night. But Hal had Hotspur. Hal had friends, and had her mother home. She had her charm and skills. The new prince needed to quash this inner turmoil—whatever it was keeping her from standing, from trying harder.
When they were younger, Hal had sometimes become inconsolable for a time. Deep sorrow, morbid thinking, and a yearning for impossible things had coated her spirit, dampening it and putting her in bed sometimes for days. Mora had believed it a childish malady that would be cured by adulthood and responsibilities—and especially by her mother’s safe return. As a child, Hal could afford her moods. As a prince, the heir to a powerful kingdom, she could not.
Just as Mora opened her