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Torran.

The creature’s feathers puffed too high along its spine, smoke curling constantly from its nares. As if it were a cat with its hackles up. It could probably still hear the Death Cry and smell the sickly burn of the rogue phoenixes that were killed on the way here. The beautiful white Ash Phoenix’s destruction remained etched in my mind. The rogue phoenixes were gone. All three of them were extinct.

Two of the Barren’s Flame Phoenixes shifted restlessly against their perches.

A sharp tug on the chain nearly dragged me back to my knees.

“Eyes down,” the guard hissed.

I lifted them higher instead and glared at the men and women around me. The crowd murmured uneasily.

A familiar sound cut through the noise—a bird, a wren. There were rebels in the crowd—maybe Aster?

He’s here. Somewhere, he’s here.

As I was scanning unknown faces, tens of guards descended the stone stairs. The guard next to me straightened and tugged on the chain again as his King approached.

King Malar strode down the palace steps, draped in crimson and black robes lined with phoenix feathers at the collar. Feathers that would have been plucked from his Rider’s living phoenix at tremendous pain to those birds. Just one more display of his power—that he could make the Riders hurt their bonded birds. But the sight hit differently now. It wouldn’t have mattered if those Riders had protested; he would have demanded it. There was a green oath etched on each of their wrists, hidden by their gloves.

Age had not softened Malar. If anything, it had carved him into a harsher dictator. He was in his sixties, with long grey hair and wild, almost childlike blue eyes. His face remained handsome in the cold, hard way statues were handsome, and his whole being was watchful. Having met Draga up close, the resemblance was staggering. He was the exact copy of his father, just younger.

Malar stopped before me, his gaze sweeping over me with the fascination of someone examining a specimen thought long lost.

“Well,” he murmured softly, “one ghost returned. They told me you’d died in the fall of the castle. And where are the others? I’m quite sure they’re not dead either.”

Every muscle in my body clamped tight, and my legs parted. Ready to fight. Ready to fling myself at him to rip his throat out. The collar burned ice-cold, warning me of the consequences of any sudden movement. Hatred shuddered down my spine as I locked eyes with him.

He studied my face slowly, taking in the red marks down my neck and bruises over my face, my cut lip, and tangled white curls before his gaze returned to meet mine.

“Violet,” he said almost thoughtfully. “So like your mother’s.”

My pulse stumbled. No one ever spoke of my mother—she was murdered with my father when I was three years old.

“You should’ve made sure they killed me,” I said hoarsely. “As I’ll be your death.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “If you could have killed me, I’m sure you would’ve already. My bodyguards are the best in the kingdom. I chose them personally.” All his personal Guards were Riders, making it impossible to get near him. “We could make you run and let the guards hunt you. It’s the Breaking Night after all. What better way to celebrate than the breaking of an Annatalian princess?” The crowd around me laughed and murmured their agreement. “Many here lost family to your uncle’s need to have the only flock. For his power grab.”

I rolled my eyes. As if Malar were any different. My uncle might have started the war by building the biggest flock in the Cursed Lands. He hid boys in the mountain caves months before Yule so they would be the first to be chosen. My uncle had then used those Riders to rain terror down on the Barrens, the Wilds, and the Northlands. Those kingdoms had lost fertile land in the Old War… and he’d created famine and death with his raids. It was hideous. Malar was just pissed he didn’t think of it.

And now the Barren farmed our lands and enslaved our people. While the kings ruled, the horror went round and round with no end in sight.

But Malar’s words were all just theatre. A servant stepped forward, carrying a folded velvet cloth in both hands. My breath caught as the fabric unravelled. Dark blue velvet embroidered with silver thread and the old crest of the sun and stars. An Annatalian royal cloak. I had not seen it since the night Annatalia fell and we fled. The servant approached cautiously, almost fearfully, and draped it over my shoulders despite the blood soaking my clothes beneath.

The symbolism was deliberate—I was going to die a princess so that my bloodline could not reclaim what was rightfully ours.

King Malar circled me slowly. “Do you know your uncle’s mistake?”

I said nothing—there were so many.

“He believed blood made rulers.” His gaze lifted toward the watching nobles. “But fear makes rulers. Fear keeps kingdoms peaceful. His second mistake was killing my sister.”

Ah, yes. Malar’s stepsister had been married to the Wilds King. Zephyr’s mother—the prince who now held Ember.

The King stopped directly before me again. “And yet here you are.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “After all these years.”

I placed a lie of a smile on my lips and locked my eyes with him. I would not cower, not in the cloak that he had placed on my shoulders. The symbolism was unnecessary—I’d never stopped being Annatalian.

But I said none of it.