And I can’t stop myself—my eyes give in at last, flicking where they’re drawn just in time to catch Ettian’s expression twisting into fury. A month ago, the sight would have warmed my heart. In a way, it still does, but it’s a twisted sort of glee that takes over at the sight of his flared nostrils. The dipshit may have killed off any feelings I had for him, but from his reaction, it’s clear his feelings for me are alive and well.
Which is continuing to bite him in the ass, if the tightening of the guard’s grip on my arm is any indication. The emperor should know better than to express this kind of sentiment over an enemy captive when soldiers are out dying on his front lines. “Tell me again what happened,” Ettian demands, authority dripping from his cool, lethal tone.
I don’t understand how he’s like this. I don’t understand where this came from. He’s explained this to me before—explained while I studiously ignored him in favor of scratching a button on my sleeve into the varnish of the table in front of me. The boy I knew as Ettian Nassun rose from the ashes of Trost, the Archon Empire’s former seat, after Umber bombed it into submission and took the empire for themselves. He spent two years scrapping for his life as the city slowly put itself back together around him and another three in a foster system once such a thing had the decency to pluck him off the streets.
I met him at fifteen, when both of us enrolled at the Umber Imperial Academy on Rana. I was a prince in disguise, surrounded by sleeper agents posing as fellow cadets, meant to get an education out among the common people before duty called me to assume my bloodright and take the empire’s reins from my parents.
He was a prince dethroned, desperately searching for purpose in a galaxy that no longer needed him.
But all I saw was a gaunt, gangly kid who looked just as terrified and out of place as I felt. As I got to know him, I learned that the war had left him scarred—so scarred that he wouldn’t even talk about anything prior to the moment he got taken off the streets. And like any decent person, I didn’t pry deeper. I took him at face value and slowly, inevitably fell in love with all that he was.
Now I’ve blown it, so I might as well look unflinchingly at all that he is. He’s dressed in a suit that’s been expertly trimmed to his lean, slender height, the jewel-green tones complementing his dark complexion and the platinum trim sparkling like stars. An ugly, twisted crown of platinum sits atop his close-cropped, wiry hair. I remember well the feeling of the weight of it leaving my hands as I set it atop his head before a screaming crowd. He seems tired under the load—the nonstop burden of being the sole carrier of the Archon bloodright, the weight of having to rule and win back his empire in the same breath.
And this situation probably isn’t helping.
Good.
“The…prisoner was in his quarters,” my guard starts. “We were posted in the hall outside. We heard a disturbance from the room, but assumed it was his usual antics. By the time we grew suspicious, he had already taken care of the attacker himself.”
“Taken care of?”
“We had to pull him off the guy,” my guard says.
It takes the faint rattle of metal on metal for me to realize that my hands are shaking. Don’t do it, I scream at myself internally. This can’t be the thing that breaks me. But I’m not about to let this asshole put the emperor’s mind at ease, and I’m certainly not going to let him get away with a lie that’ll get me killed if I’m not as lucky the next time someone makes it past him.
“I yelled for help,” I announce.
The court falls silent. A second later, I hear the sharp hiss of Ettian’s inhale as he realizes these are the first words I’ve spoken to him since the day I found out who he really was. His eyes lock on mine, and I fight the instinct to dodge his gaze.
“The man got in through a vent. He came at me with a knife. I yelled for help.” I hold up my hands, flashing my bloody knuckles at him. “Two guards were posted outside the door, and I had to beat the assassin down myself.”
“We didn’t hear any—” the guard tries to insert.
“You clearly heard something,” I retort, jabbing one reddened finger under his chin. The guard snarls and twists my arm, wrenching me down into a contorted bow, and even though it barely hurts, I let out a pained yelp.
“Stop,” Ettian snaps, and the guard releases me, taking a step back.
I drop to my knees, trying to conceal my smirk. Once again, there he goes displaying an affection he’s been advised to scorch out of himself, right in front of people whose loyalty he desperately needs. I tip my head back, baring my throat to the light. I haven’t had a chance to appraise the marks my would-be assassin left there, but from the slight hitch in Ettian’s breath, I know they’ve done what I need them to.
“You’re relieved of duty,” the emperor announces.
Oh, this is almost too easy. I can all but feel the room’s opinion of their emperor crumbling away. Ettian emp-Archon’s transition to power was slipshod at best, and ever since I set that crown on his head, it’s been doing its best to wobble right off again. Originally the Archon invasion had planned to let their military lead while they hacked away at restoring their former holdings, then transition to a more democratic system of government with assistance from their Corinthian neighbors. Then Ettian waltzed in, brandishing his father’s signet ring, and everything went to hell.
Much like Umber, the former Archon Empire believed strongly in the bloodright of its rulers. Power transitioned from generation to generation through clear-cut lines of succession, aided by the common practice of hiding one’s offspring from the galactic eye until they were ready to step up and begin taking over their parents’ reign. But when Umber conquered Archon and Marc and Henrietta emp-Archon were beheaded at the Imperial Seat, no heirs came tumbling out of the shadows to fill their place. Power transitioned easily over to Umber governors like Berr sys-Tosa, people who stepped in ready to oversee the effort it would take to sculpt the Archon territories back into their proper shapes. Archon pride withered away, aided by the defeat and apparent execution of Maxo Iral.
Now it has a new figurehead: my dumbass former roommate. The boy who once pancaked a Viper on a runway because he’d used his landing gear to literally glue himself to me is now the leader of a haphazard attempt to reclaim an empire. The Archon people saw his revelation as a sign, proof that bloodright reign will restore what they lost.
But the fact remains that they’ve handed governance of a revolution over to an eighteen-year-old whose last brush with imperial training happened when he was ten. Worse—at least from an Archon perspective—since then their heir has been raised by the Umber military machine. Now he’s doing his damnedest to take the reins of one that’s unflinchingly Archon, trying to scrape back what trust he can rebuild from the people he failed. I could rant in his face for hours and still not even scratch the surface of all the mistakes he’s making.
I won’t, though. Instead, I’m going to see just how many more missteps I can dance him through. Because if I’m doomed to be their pet princeling, I’m going to do my damnedest to topple his fledgling empire from the inside. I know what it feels like to lose all my faith in Ettian emp-Archon. Might as well see if I can get the rest of his people to follow my example.
And it starts with the slight scoffing noise my guard makes as he’s relieved of his post at my side. It’s a sound of disappointment, a sound of resignation, a sound that makes it clear the young emperor isn’t doing anything to keep his people’s faith. It’s a crack I can dig my fingernails into and peel. A sort of hunger keens in my stomach, eager for the next opportunity to strike.
So strike I do.
“Seriously?” I ask, throwing my voice loud enough that it echoes off the cavernous ceiling overhead. I brace for another move from the guard, but he’s already taking a long step backward, thrilled to be free of my orbit.
Ettian’s incredulous
gaze snaps to me, like he’s not sure he’s lucky enough to be hearing me speak twice in one day.
“You’re letting this asshole live?” I ask, and point vehemently back at the guard. “He defied orders. He nearly let your most valuable hostage die to satisfy a personal vendetta. You’re gonna reward that? Look at him—he’s thrilled you’re taking him off this assignment. He should be ruttin’ terrified.”
“That’s not how we do things,” Ettian replies, his voice soft but full of firm conviction.
“Why, because you think it’s gonna win you people?” I scoff, resisting the urge to tuck my bloody hands into my armpits. “All it proves is that you’re not really in charge here.”
At least he’s not stupid enough to rise to that bait—though I wasn’t really counting on him doing it. Blustering about how he is in charge would have the opposite of its intended effect in the eyes of the room. But speaking those words aloud has its own kind of power, the kind of grain-of-sand irritation that grows pearls with enough time. If I can get him insecure, I can get him sloppy.
If I can get him sloppy, I might even achieve the second thing on my to-do list.
Because sure, toppling a regime from the inside would be impressive, but it also sounds tedious as hell. There’s a throne waiting for me on the other end of the galactic arm, and three months until I’m old enough to start my own succession. If I’m wise about how I use them, there’s a chance I might make it home and start my reign right on time.
Getting my guards fired is a damn good start. The more I can degrade the security around me, the better—especially since measures will probably increase in the wake of the assassination attempt. Ettian dismissing the guard is an opportunity, and I’ve got to figure out fast how I’ll spend it before the snare closes around my legs again.
A sudden banging from the fore of the court wrenches me away from the churn of my thoughts. Ettian straightens, eyes narrowed, then relaxes when he glances down at the datapad in his hands. “Let her—” he starts.
With a shriek of boltfire and a puff of smoke, Wen Iffan kicks through the door.
“…in,” Ettian finishes flatly.
CHAPTER 3
A month as Ettian’s rogue enforcer has been more than kind to Wen. She’s traded ratty rags for a lightweight set of tac armor, and her wiry muscles have rounded out with good food and better work. Even her gait has changed, her light-footed, darting steps settled down into a confident stride that carries her through the massive brass doors at the court’s entrance with her head held high.
She’s also smoking slightly.
I’ve heard the stories that whisper through the usurped city that serves as the rebellion’s haphazard Imperial Seat. Rumors of a girl the people have taken to calling the Flame Knight carving through any Umber dissidents left in Trost. I’ve seen the smirks on my guards’ lips when they sight a plume on the outskirts of the city, the signal fire that lets the galaxy know that Wen Iffan is working.
I’ve also seen scowls. Wen’s been effective at rooting out any attempts by the Umber-loyal to organize in the city, but that effectiveness comes at a steep cost paid in property damage. If Wen were native to Trost, maybe she’d be a little more careful about her work, but she left the lawless, rough-and-tumble city of her birth back in the Corinthian Empire and brought its philosophy along for the ride. For the people who call this place home, it’s…grating, to say the least.
She waltzes across the room, her grin visible from a distance. “Good hunting today, boss,” she calls as she approaches the dais. “Up until, of course, I heard we had a little kerfuffle back at home base. Hey, Gal.”
I tip a sardonic wave at her, and she lifts her chin, tilting her face so I catch a full view of the burn scars that coat half of it. She wears them proudly, her hair pulled back and slicked down, a constant reminder that once upon a time in Corinth, a mobster stuck her face in the tailpipe of a starship.
That’s all you really need to know about Wen Iffan. Some people are made of joy or love or hate. Wen, it seems, is made of trouble. She drags it wherever she goes like a kid pulling a favorite stuffed toy through the dirt. If she hadn’t tethered herself to Ettian’s ship, I might find her charming. Fun, even. But this is war, and the sides are clear. Something unshakable clicked into place between Wen and Ettian when they met, something I was right to resent.
Ettian has all the hate in my heart. But Wen just pisses me off.
“We’ve had an intruder, yes,” Ettian says. There’s an interesting note of consternation in his voice, and I find myself studying his face a little closer than I should. “Before that, though, I received a report of a crisis in the Hensi District. Something about a prewar building toppling.”
Wen’s grin gets wider. “Yeah, I didn’t think it would work as well as it did, but—”
“You’re saying this was on purpose?” Ettian asks tersely, eliminating any need for further study.
Wen didn’t get this far by missing cues like this. The grin drops from her face, though the ghost of it stays tucked in one corner of her mouth. “My team cleared the area. Sims ran the demo—you know he always checks his work thoroughly. No civilians were harmed. And we took out an entire cell that might have been a threat—”
“You knocked over a building in the middle of a city.”
“I dropped a building on some would-be terrorists. Technicalities.”
Ettian huffs. “And meanwhile, there are assassins crawling through the vents of this very palace.”
Wen’s eyes go huge. “Someone tried to kill you?”
“Someone tried to kill him,” Ettian corrects, and I have to force myself not to flinch at the weight that last word carries in his voice. If he’s giving out gifts, though, I might as well worsen the implication, so I throw him a sly warning look—one I hope reads clearly as, Babe, there are people watching.
Ettian’s too focused on Wen to catch it, but he seems to realize his misstep all the same—he straightens, lifting his chin as if that’s going to make him look any more imperial. First he fires a guard over the safety of a prisoner, and now he’s allowing a subordinate to openly defy him in the sight of his entire court. I smirk when his nervous gaze flits to me. Go ahead. Show me how you salvage this.
“I can’t have you running wild in the capital—in my capital—”
“I’m half the reason it continues to be your capital—”
You have to appease her first, dipshit, I want to scream in his ear. Why I want to tell him how to lead more effectively is beyond me. Maybe it’s some sick sense of self-preservation—after all, Ettian’s proven himself to be the only person in the Archon territories who genuinely cares about my well-being. If he’s ousted, I’m dead, most likely in a painful, public manner.
But if he lives, I’m still a prisoner. Kept in a cushiony cell, but a cell all the same. A pressure point to bend my parents where previously they were immovable. The fulcrum of his entire war.
If I topple his regime, I need an ejector seat primed and ready to get me out of the mess it’ll leave in its wake.
I need a plan.
“If this revolution goes anywhere, it needs to do so with the trust of my people behind it,” Ettian declares. “And you’re damaging that. Until I know for sure you won’t damage it further, I think it’s best if you stick to applying your talents within the palace walls.”
His gaze sneaks back over to me, and my stomach drops.
“Fortunately, a position’s just opened up.”
Oh no, I think.
“Oh no,” Wen says out loud, settling her hands on her hips. “Ett—” She catches herself. The scrutiny of the court demands that she address him properly, even if to her he’s still just the deserter she once tried to con into buying a ship with no engines. “Your Majesty,” Wen continues, “I have work I can’t just set aside. Leads I’ve been pursuing. The strike
today was the culmination of weeks of dedicated effort, and it’s only the beginning. If you want to win this war, you have to hold this city. And if you want to hold this city, you need—”
“The work can continue without you,” Ettian says. “And continue it will.” He steps forward off the dais, bending close to her ear in a way that has everyone else in the court craning to catch his words. “Work with me, Wen,” he murmurs. “We can figure the rest out later.”
She softens, but then her gaze skitters over to me and her jaw winds tight. “Someone gunned for him?” she asks, her eyes dropping to my hands.
“Got in through the vents,” Ettian confirms. “Figured you’re fit for the job since you’ve had some experience in that area.”
Wen smirks, and the sight of it sends my stomach dropping back to the moment I was first dragged into this palace. She was at my side then, her hands cuffed in brass, her eyes wide and glazed in confusion. She knew she had been betrayed by me and Ettian when we tricked her into flying off-course and dropping our cargo of Archon soldiers directly on top of an Umber patrol. When I tried to convince her to fly me to the rendezvous we’d planned, she held course, demanding that I tell her exactly what was going on.
By then, the Archon fleet had been informed of my identity through Berr sys-Tosa’s treachery. When they closed on us and bullied us out of the sky, I felt the tearing sensation of history repeating itself, doubled by her threatening to crash and kill us both if I didn’t spit out the truth.
So I did.
Once again, it was too late to salvage anything. Wen was taken prisoner alongside me. We marched up the palace drive side by side, flanked by Archon soldiers and bound in matching chains. I kept glancing sidelong at her, but she’d—possibly deliberately—put me on her burnt side, leaving her expression inscrutable.
But I’d been through it all before, in the very same skies we’d just left. I told Ettian who I really was, shattering the illusion that had bound us together for two and a half years. And then I was taken away and locked in a cushy room that didn’t look like a cell to await Berr sys-Tosa and, potentially, a lifetime spent as his pet prince. In desperation, I snuck a message out to Ettian, asking him to get me out of there.
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