“That we do, myerina. That we do. And if your sisters are half the woman you are, then I am a very lucky son of the sea.” Still laughing, his smile dazzling white against the shimmering, tattooed darkness of his skin, the Calbernan called out in the fluid, musical tones of his native tongue. His men lowered their weapons.

“What?” Falcon lunged towards his former ally. “Merimydion, you bastard, we had a deal!”

The Calbernan prince turned swift as a shark, the points of his trident halting inches from Falcon’s face. No longer laughing, golden eyes cold and deadly, Dilys Merimydion said softly, “Our deal is done, Falcon Coruscate. Yours are not the only eyes in this forest. I know you struck this brave myerina. I know you left her to die. I know she offered you mercy, and still you would kill her if you could. A man who treats a woman—his own sister, no less—with so little care or honor is a man who cannot be trusted. Myerina”—the Sealord’s cold, predatory gaze never left Falcon’s face—“say the word, and this krillo will never again pollute your radiance with his presence.”

“No. That won’t be necessary.” To her brother, she said, “You are not the man I once thought you were, but you are still an Heir of the Rose. I will need all the help I can get to defeat Rorjak. Fight with me, Falcon, and I will guarantee you safe passage out of Wintercraig on the condition that you never return and never again conspire against Wintercraig in any fashion.”

“Surrender everything . . . for what?”

“For your life, Falcon. That’s more than Verdan Coruscate has. More than Elka has. More than the thousands of people who died because of you have. And for a chance to regain at least some of the honor you spent the last three years throwing away. For a chance to be the Prince of Summer you should have been.”

Leaving him to mull over that, she turned to the forces gathered around her. “To the Summerlanders among you, I offer amnesty for your rebellion against the King of Wintercraig. I am Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate Atrialan, princess of Summerlea, Queen of Wintercraig.” She rolled her cuff back and thrust her arm into the air, displaying the red Rose on her inner wrist. “I am an Heir of the Rose, Master of Storms, and the wielder of Blazing, the legendary sword of Roland Soldeus. I offer you a chance to return home not to a traitor’s death, but to a hero’s welcome.” She turned in a slow circle, gauging the response. Most of the men looked uncertain. A few remained hostile.

“The monsters that just attacked us? There are more where those came from—as well as an entire army of other creatures whose only desire is to destroy all life and plunge the whole of Mystral into eternal winter. If we don’t stop them now, their numbers will only increase. You saw what happened to your comrades when the garm’s blue vapor froze them. It will happen again and again, to every man, woman, child, and beast, until the largest army in the world could not hope to defeat them.

“All I ask is that you swear fealty to me and that you follow me now, into battle, as you followed my brother and King Verdan. Do this, and your crimes against Wintercraig’s crown will be forgiven. Do it not, and every last one of you will perish in fire and blood. This I swear on the sword of my ancestor, Roland Soldeus.”

Wynter lay on his cot, staring up at the roof of his tent. The material was a blank slate of uninteresting tan canvas, unlike the soothing, tattooed beauty of the tent he’d used throughout the three long years of his war with Summerlea. But the very blankness of the canvas was almost hypnotic in its own right.

His eyes unfocused, and his mind wandered through the various scenarios that might unfold in the coming days. He thought about Wintercraig, his childhood, about Garrick. He thought about the day he’d looked up and seen Khamsin watching him from the oriel in the King’s Keep, and about their wedding day, the moment when her Rose had first touched his Wolf, and awareness had struck him like a lightning bolt.

Had she gone to her brother willingly? Surrendered to him the greatest weapon the world had ever seen? Or, as Tildy suggested, had she been taken against her will?

He knew what he wanted to believe. His heart ached for Tildy to be right.

Yet some little voice in the back of his mind kept whispering, Falcon is her brother. The one she loved as much as you loved Garrick. She would never betray him. Not even for you.

What had he done to ever win her love or loyalty? He’d wed her against her will, all but raped her on their wedding night thanks to that cursed arras leaf, then taken her from everything she’d ever known and everyone she’d ever loved. Yes, he’d made her his queen, but he’d practically abandoned her on his own doorstep, using her body at his convenience, while leaving her alone to face the mockery and derision of his court for weeks on end.

He’d tried to make amends these last months, tried to give her a measure of the care and happiness any wife of his deserved. But how could a few weeks of kindness and attention outweigh a lifetime of love?

Falcon was as much her hero as Roland Soldeus. And with Roland’s sword in their possession, the two of them could reclaim Summerlea—or even conquer Wintercraig for that matter. She didn’t need Wynter. And considering that she’d incinerated two garm even without the added power of Roland’s sword, she didn’t need to fear Wynter’s Gaze either.

Why would she ever choose him over Falcon?

He’d asked the wolves watching her brother’s camp, but if any of them had seen her, they’d been slain before they could pass on the knowledge to their pack.