"But now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood."

—From Frankenstein,

By Mary Shelley

MORDANIA CASTLE,
MORDANIA
YEAR 1675

Someone entered the armoury and spoke. It was Ilyas. "Where is the queen?"

"Father!" Mireille dropped her friend and brother's hands, hurling herself at Ilyas.

She nearly slipped but Ilyas, unlike Alastair, made no move to catch her until she reached him. Even then, he barely raked his gaze over the girl he scooped into his arms and settled on his hip, and instead fixed it on Jovana. She hated to look at him, had no idea why Mireille bore such respect for the males of her family when they seemed to be cut from the same, icy cloth.

"I am here," she answered him. "What happens now?"

"Our first task is to transport you to safety," one of the advisors spoke.

"What about my mother?" she asked. "What... what of the queen dowager?"

Ilyas's face was impassive as he spoke, and she despised it. Despised that the expression he wore was the same he had when he told the servants his meat was undercooked or when he asked for more wine. Despised that not one drop of sympathy could be wrung from him. Almost as much as she despised the words that left his thin lips. "Your mother is dead. The queen has fallen."

Her body did not shake; she could not move an inch. If she stood still enough, time would turn back. The events of the past few days would not have happened. No shredded ball gown and borrowed cloak would cover her body; she would be clad in her everyday attire. This frigid, stark armoury would not be surrounding her; she would be in a warm ballroom somewhere. Her mother... her mother would still be alive...

"Jovana!" Alastair was shaking her, pressing something cold and hard onto her hands.

It was the dagger... all she had left of Queen Adaira Dusang. Jovana touched the sharp, cool metal to her lips once, twice, as she had seen her mother do before any battle. The crown was still heavy on her head.

"We must leave, son." Only at that movement has Ilyas's stare fastened onto his older child. "We have to be going before the Atlans find us."

Jovana frowned, tucking the dagger into a sheath by her side. There would be time to grieve and cry and mourn later. For now, she needed to know why the advisors' furs were perilously sodden but Ilyas's attire has not so much a snowflake on it. "Why are you so dry, Lord Durand?"

He tutted. "This is not the time for insolent, young girl-queens to be questioning their elders, Jovana. We are here to ensure the survival of the royal line, not to satisfy your childish curiosity."

She was a child. She was a child with burdens far too heavy to bear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alastair tense. A mere week ago, he might have chimed in or at the very least shown signs of enjoyment at her being chastised by his father. Now he looked as though he might fight the man—though, tragedy enough, Ilyas had not so much as glanced at his only son and heir. No, he still had that cutting pair of steel-grey eyes riveted on her. Daring her to back down.

He snapped his fingers, as though she were a dog. "Go with the advisors Jovana."

Finally, he turned to Alastair. "You, as well, son."

Mireille began to squirm in her father's arms, clearly wanting to be put down, to stay with her brother.

"You'll be with me, Mireille, but your brother is betrothed to the queen now, remember? He goes with Jovana," Ilyas said. It was odd to hear him soften his tone when his frigid voice still rang out through the armoury, as loud as the toll of any ominous bell. "Go on, then. Take them away."

Why did that sound like they were being led to their executions?

"I'll see you soon, Mireille." Alastair forced a smile, kissing his little sister on the cheek.

Jovana waved, swallowing a lump in her throat and not trusting that, if she opened her mouth, words and not sobs would escape.

One of the Beauforts took Jovana's hand, while a Levesque took—or, tried to take—Alastair's. He declared that he was too old now for anyone to need him to tag along after them and darted ahead into the fold. Halfway through the short walk to where the horses had been tied to some trees in a clearing, however, Alastair declared that he had forgotten something in the armoury. The Levesque guard tried to follow him back but Alastair uttered threats, swore that his father would have his head for laying hands on him. Jovana tried to wrench herself free and go with him, but she could not. The grip on her hand was too tight, too firm to get free... she felt as if she were frozen in place. But she had to be with him... he could not leave her...

They left one of the Levesque guards to stay behind and fetch him when he returned, then continued on towards the horses; from there, they would flee to the port and would take a waiting boat across the sea to a secure location in Othar. Jovana's heart throbbed painfully in her chest, tears freezing on her face at the thought of leaving the Durand siblings behind.

They made camp that night, halfway to the port. Alastair still did not appear. Jovana cling to her crown and wept in the darkness, muffling her sobs in her bedroll. Where was Mireille? Where was Alastair? She gripped the cold spikes of metal between her fingers, not caring that they dug into her skin. All she felt was the hollowness in her chest; she hadn't known that those she loved had filled that space until they were gone. Her mother. Her best friend. Her betrothed. They were all gone. No crown or throne could make up for that, and the crown felt like the reason they were gone.

If she were not the queen, she would still have her friends and her mother with her. No one would care bout her if she were a farmer's daughter, if she were a simple milkmaid, not a pawn in this game of swords and blood; nations and borders; bone and fire.

"When will the Durand's return?" She asked when the sobs stopped wracking her body.

Hazel Beaufort, who was sharing the tent with her since security trumped privacy in this case, simply gave a small, sad smile. "Soon."

By now, Jovana thought she knew enough to realize that soon might very well mean never.

"I wish Mireille and Alastair were here," she murmured. "Why did they have to go?"

A rustling noise startled her from her book, and she turned. Hazel held an ivory-backed hairbrush and requested softly, "May I?"

Jovana nodded. She was glad, at least, that the older woman didn't make up any false condolences or fabricate any comforting words. The soothing motion of the bristles against her scalp reminded her not of her mother—for which she was glad, because it might have broken her to think of her now—but they caused her to remember her nurse. How was it that only a few days ago, she had been only a girl, whining about being engaged and fawning over pretty dresses? Now she was a queen, hiding her tears and missing her friends.

All  she had left in this world was a weapon and a broken heart.