༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Crossing the border into Sharlikire doesn't bring the rage rushing to the surface as I expect it to. It doesn't leave me choking for air or swimming in memories. Instead, that hole in my chest deepens, widens, reminds me it's still here, waiting to consume me whole.

Otherwise, crossing the border into Sharlikire—the place where my life has been stripped and beaten and reforged—is a quiet ordeal.

The trees are sparse. The land is wet. The rocks are jagged. The breeze brings the salty stench of the sea with it. It's the same, except everything has changed.

I know who my true enemy is now. At least, I hope I do.

I ride towards the palace, avoiding Warroll with its muddy streets and drunks. There's nothing for me there anymore. I had my revenge, I did my damage.

My sight it settled on the black spires of the Sharlik Empire, rising into the starry sky like jagged teeth. The last time I was here, I nearly died. I expected to die. Today, I plan to make it out alive.

I stop amongst the trees and shrubs, keeping hidden. I study the brick walls surrounding the palace and the soldiers that patrol them in their clanking armour, capes of red and black trailing in the mud behind them.

Slipping out of the saddle, I whisper in the horse's ear, brushing a gloved hand along his broad neck as I tie the horse's reins to a tree. I don't know whether the reassurances I murmur to the horse that I'll return are for him or for me.

I could attempt to navigate the tunnels beneath the Empire, go in the same way I did last time, but I perhaps have a better bet of staying alive by avoiding traipsing through the Empire with no cover.

I flip open one of the saddlebags on the horse and tug out the contents. The clothes carry a stench of dust from sitting for so long in an abandoned cabin in the Midland. The sleeves of the tunic are slightly moth eaten, but I still strip off my bulky coat and tug the clothes over my black sweater and trousers. Then I shove a brown cap on my head, tucking my black hair into it.

Satisfied with the sad state of my appearance, I approach the edge of the trees once dressed to get a better vantage point of the wall, staying crouched amongst the bushes and brambles and shadows.

Boots whispering against leaves and dirt, I shift closer to the iron and brick wall, my muscles bunching, my fingers twitching with nerves. Surveying the area, I watch each movement the soldiers make, where their trails take them and when they turn on their heel to start the rotation all over again.

None of them shirk their duties. They're straight-spined and sour-faced, just as they were in Warroll. Getting into the palace won't be as easy as last time.

Timing my approach, I slink out of the shadows and run across the road, staying low. I avoid the torches that illuminate the paths for the guards and focus on the iron and brick of the walls.

Once I reach the wall, I don't waste a moment in clinging to the bars to haul myself up. I drop on the other side and stay stagnant for a moment, listening for any shouts or clunking footsteps.

When all seems safe, I continue forward towards the palace. I try one of the windows but it won't budge. With twisted lips, I pull back my arm and slam a fist into it. The glass rattles and doesn't break. I scowl at it, flex my fingers, and draw on the strength tangled beneath my skin. Then I rear back and send my elbow into the glass. It shatters and I don't waste a moment. Reaching inside, I unlock the window and shove it open before jumping into the dimly lit office.

For a moment I stay crouched in the office, listening for any approaching footsteps or shouts of alarm. As the quiet persists, I stand and approach the desk. It's cluttered with papers and books, but my gaze snags on a bottle. I swipe it up, the crimson liquid sloshing within.

A smile curves my lips and I turn and leave the office, chin lowered and hands clutching the bottle of wine. I walk with a purpose through the halls of the Empire, sending my senses stretching further than my eyes can see as I search for the prince.

"You!" someone shouts and my heart leaps into my throat. Fingers itching to grab the dagger tucked into the waistband of my trousers, I turn. A woman approaches, a stern look on her lined features. "What are you doing?"

I hold up the wine. "Prince Norvin requested this," I tell her, my mouth suddenly parched.

She narrows her eyes at me as she stops with her hands planted on her hips. "The prince requested that?" The suspicion in her voice has my fingers twitching.

"Yes."

"Were you hit over the head? Refer to him by his proper title before you're sent back to whatever backwater hole they snatched you from."

Shoulders slumping, I nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"Besides, the emperor's quarters are that way." She jabs her thumb over her shoulder. "Up the south tower. Get going."

I make a hasty retreat before she can press for more answers and don't look back.

The woman's directions weren't explicit, but being able to walk through the Empire without anyone looking at me twice certainly makes things easier and I find the south tower without a struggle.

The tower is larger than the last one I was in with Captain Vasio, with more dark stone and far colder.

I stare up at the winding staircase, taking a moment to wonder where this will lead me. Either I'll make an alliance with the Empire, or I'll thoroughly ruin the chances of tearing down Palmira without a civil war.

This weight will never get easier to carry.

I run my tongue over my teeth and begin my ascent. I can't imagine Norvin will be glad to see me, the person who murdered his father. I'm the one that broke the Empire, made it and all the people within its shadow vulnerable for whatever Palmira wants to do with it.

My assassination of the emperor was more than just discovering what my marks do, it was to destabilise the land and force people right into Palmira's arms, right where she needs them to be in order to strengthen her army.

I did this. I helped break Rupteran. And I don't know how to fix it. I can only hope that Rashida does, because after this, I'm leaving to find the answers about where I came from. The rebellion will be stronger without me.

Once I've reached the top, I take a breath before pushing open the heavy doors. With narrowed eyes, I take in the room, briefly wondering why Norvin would haul himself up in an attic.

The roof is slanted, the windows are narrow and don't allow for much natural light. A slim bed is shoved into a corner, brimming with furs and quilts. Shadows press against the edges of the room, dark and dense and untouched by the crackling fire in the hearth.

Old tales come back to me. Tales of princes slaying dragons to save the princess trapped in the tower. My lips twist. I'm no knight in shining armour and dragons don't exist. But I hope I can save the royal trapped in the tower.

Walking further into the room, I find piles of books, all of them beaten and used. I try to ignore the envious part of me.

"Aren't you a brave little thing?"

I twist around at the voice as the door clicks shut and a man steps out of the shadows. Eyes the colour of a rare blue sky in Sharlikire narrow at me. "You must be the new emperor."

His gaze rakes over me, an almost bored tilt to them. "I suppose I have you to thank for that, little assassin."

"Good, you know who I am. That saves the awkward introductions." My gaze flicks over him as he steps further into the dim light of the room. Dark brown curls are pushed back from his forehead, and his skin is pale under the dark shadow of scruff along his square jaw. His features seem disinterested, but the tense set to his shoulders betray him.

"How did you manage it?" he questions, keeping distance between us.

"Manage what?" I set the bottle of wine down on his desk and brush gloved fingers along the papers there. One I reveal is a print of my face, the wanted poster now reaching further than just Warroll. I have Jile to thank for the uncanny description.

"Many assassins have tried and failed to kill my father over the years, yet here you are, nothing more than a little girl. How did you do it?"

My breathing quickens and my hands curl at my sides. Questions form, so many questions. What does Norvin know about his father? What does Norvin know about the marks? And if Ulric really was a god, then what the Hell does that make Norvin?

He inclines his head. "You're nervous."

"I'm here to speak for the rebellion."

Norvin raises a dark brow before he turns away from me. He strips the cape from his shoulders—revealing the lavish tunic beneath of embroidered red and gold—and drapes the thick fabric over a sofa. "Which part of the rebellion?" he questions as he takes the jagged crown from his head and sits it on the cape, keeping his back to me.

"Rashida sent me."

"I thought you worked for Palmira." He sits beside his crown and stretches out his legs, looking up at me with those blue eyes that see more than they should.

My back straightens. "That was a mistake."

His full lips twitch. "I bet." He begins to roll up the sleeves of his tunic, exposing an array of scars.

"Rashida fears that you do too," I say, unable to tear my gaze from those scars.

Norvin shrugs and focuses on the other sleeve.

"What does she have against you?" I continue.

"If you're really working with Rashida, then you already know that." Norvin looks up at me and crosses his legs at the ankles. He seems docile, relaxed even, but I'm beginning to get the feeling it's all for show, to make my lips more willing to spill whatever he wants them to.

"Princess Isadora."

Norvin hums as a response, offering nothing beyond that. "Did he die begging?"

I pause for a moment, stumbling over the conversation before I realise who he speaks of. "He did," I reply, narrowing my eyes, watching for any sign of anger or grief. But Norvin's face is a blank canvas and betrays nothing. "But he also told me not to let Palmira use you like she used him."

"There are screams here," he continues like I never spoke, like he's forgotten I'm here. "They echo through the halls. Sometimes, when I was a child, I used to try and find the source, but they'd always end before I could."

I lower my gaze to my boots, remembering the bodies that were left to rot in the tunnels beneath the Empire, remembering the stains of blood that littered the halls.

"I've learned to block it out," he says. "But before I did, I heard a lot of people die, people I couldn't save, people that were tortured right beneath my feet while I was trained to fight and slept in silk." He shifts his gaze to me, those icy eyes suddenly filled with emotions I don't want to look at too closely. "I don't remember a day going by when I didn't wish to hear my father's screams instead of theirs."

My breath sticks in my throat and all I can do is stare at him.

"I was ten when I stole enough money from the treasury to hire an assassin to kill my own father. And I watched when it happened. When that blade broke against my father's skin, when every blow that assassin landed upon him did nothing. I watched the assassin die and my father brush off the attack like it was a stale conversation." His features shift like a gathering storm, darkness sparking in his eyes as he stands. "So, when I ask you to tell me how you did it, I expect you to tell me."

"Do you know what your father supposedly was?" I speak around the lump forming in my throat.

Norvin meets my gaze and tilts his head, taking a moment to choose his words. "Some say he was a god. But gods can't be killed, so you disproved that."

"I have a weapon that was made to kill gods."

"And how did you come to possess such a thing?"

"Once I'm done here, I plan to find that out."

Norvin lets out a sigh and returns to the sofa to sit. He rakes his fingers through his curls, the cold facade of him beginning to unravel, but it doesn't make him any less dangerous. He was still raised in the Empire, amongst this torture and darkness.

I know what that's like, and I know the state of my morals.

"What's Rashida's plan?"

"He's promised to protect Princess Isadora if you tell us everything you learn about Palmira while under her command. And offer us assistance if we ask for it."

"When you ask for it," he corrects, then shakes his head. "How does he plan to protect Isadora when she's surrounded by Palmira's hunters?"

I chew on my lower lip. "I don't know."

"Kid, that's not reassuring."

"Is that what I'm meant to be doing?" I ask and roll my eyes. "Look, I don't know Rashida very well, I don't know what he's capable of, I'm sure you know him better than I do. So, if he says he's going to protect your princess, do you trust him to do it?"

Norvin pauses for a moment, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Princess Isadora can protect herself," he replies, the corner of his lips quirking. "All she needs is the reassurance of his support and Palmira won't be able to touch her. So, yes, I trust him."

Hope barrels through me, but I keep my face neutral. "You're on our side then? You'll tell Rashida whatever Palmira is doing?"

Norvin stands and approaches me before offering his hand. "And when you or your rebellion asks for aid, I'll make certain the soldiers loyal to me stand by you."

I stare is his hand before taking it, my gaze squinting. "You know, I never thought I'd be making an alliance with the Emperor of the Sharlik Empire."

"Times change, kid, and I'm done watching Rupteran burn."