Page 33

I set the glasses on the map, right over the Midlands.

Maggie blinks, lifting her head. She tracks the glowing blue liquid, her brow furrowing.

I uncork the bottle and pour two fingers into each glass. “You look terrible, Commander.”

She drags a hand through her dark hair, pushing the curtain fringe out of her eyes. “Your flattery is astounding, Orien. What is that?”

“Vasari spirits.” I slide a glass across the metal surface. “It will burn the exhaustion out of your blood and help you sleep.”

She stares at the glass, then at me. “I don’t drink on duty.”

“It is three in the morning. Your duty is a delusion at this hour.” I pick up my own glass, swirling the luminescent blue liquid. “Consider it a diplomatic exchange. You share your dreadful synthesized coffee with me every morning. Let me share something that doesn’t taste like roasted dirt.”

A heavy sigh escapes her lips. She abandons her pen, letting it clatter onto the paper. Her pale fingers wrap around the crystal, and she brings the drink to her nose, sniffing cautiously.

“Drink, Maggie. It isn’t poisoned.”

She shoots me a dark look, tips the glass back, and swallows.

Her eyes widen instantly, and a sharp gasp punches out of her throat. She slams the glass down on the table, coughing, a beautiful flush sweeping up her neck and flooding her cheeks.

“Christ on a bicycle,” she rasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “That is… robust.”

“It warms the blood.” I lean against the edge of the table, sipping my own drink. The alcohol hits my system, a familiar, pleasant heat uncurling in my stomach.

Maggie takes another breath, her posture loosening a fraction of an inch. The harsh lines of her shoulders drop. The rigid control she wears like a second skin thaws, melted by the Vasari alcohol flooding her veins. She reaches for the glass again and takes a much smaller, measured sip.

“Salty,” she murmurs, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop on her lower lip.

My twin hearts give a synchronized thump. I tear my gaze away from her mouth, focusing on her eyes. They look brighter. The icy blue warms, shifting into something softer, something far more dangerous to my self-preservation.

“I have spent the last two moonfalls studying your tactical files.” I keep my voice low, a soft rumble in the quiet room. “I have read the incident reports. The casualty lists. The supply chains.”

She rests her elbows on the table, cradling the crystal glass in both hands. “And what is your expert conclusion?”

“My conclusion is that your archives are missing an entire year of history.” I tilt my head, watching the flush deepen on her cheeks. The Vasari spirits are already relaxing her. “The invasion hit. The government fell. London splintered into factions controlled by violent men who hoarded resources. And then, suddenly, a young woman who worked for the pre-invasion government commands the entire island. Your rise to power is an anomaly, Maggie.”

She looks down at the glowing blue liquid.

“I won’t judge you,” I add softly. “I am a spymaster. I deal in shadows. Tell me how you took the throne.”

She traces the rim of the glass. The silence stretches as she makes her calculations. She is tipsy, her defences lowered, but Margaret Elmsleigh never speaks without intention. She weighs the risk. She measures the trust.

Then, she lifts her head.

“I didn’t take it,” she says, her voice smooth and devoid of its usual sharp edge. “I inherited it. From five dead men.”

I freeze, not moving a muscle. I simply listen.

“There were five warlords in London,” she continues, leaning back in her chair. The alcohol makes her movements fluid, almost lazy. “Pike. Vaughn. Hargreaves. Rook. Morgan. They controlled the food, the guns, the medicine. They treated human beings like currency.”

She takes another sip, her eyes distant, replaying the memories.

“I made myself indispensable. I memorized their supply depots. I tasted their wine for poison. I learned their schedules, their weaknesses, their fears. I moved between their territories for eighteen months, a harmless little secretary carrying messages and arranging treaties.”

A slow, vicious smile curves her lips. It is the most terrifying, magnificent expression I have ever seen on a human face.

“And then, in month nineteen, I scheduled meetings with all five of them on the exact same night.”