As King Gavin and Sir Garner proceeded to the table, making long, sturdy strides through Castle Lemaria, five knights accompanied them. There was Sir Andrea, dirty-blonde hair loose around her shoulders, half a smile on her face; there were Sirs Cassius and Shahin clad in shining mail, the first winking at the second. There was Sir Vere, beard grizzled but well-kept, eyes flashing as he examined passing servants. And there was the fifth knight at the head of the group, a green cloak drawn over her head so that no observer could identify her. She wore one brown glove and tall leather boots, neither of them particularly nice; the garments were too mundane for such an elevated affair, too human. But something about the way she walked was peculiar. When she moved across the polished tile, she seemed to glide, one step flowing perfectly into the next. When she paused before rounding corners, ensuring that ill-wishers did not lurk in the shadows, all motion stopped—she did not seem to breathe, as if she had become a statue. And then she would begin to walk again, and the group would follow her, and the Elusian servants would wonder which of Gavin's knights they had witnessed.

This had been Meric's intention, to pass recognition. When she had traveled through this castle before, circumstances had been different; she had been bloodied and fatigued, too tired to dwell on what servants thought of her. But Meric recalled that even then, the servants' fear at the Adrigolian knights' passing had distressed her. That fear was less present now, perhaps because the entourage was within their right to be there. Perhaps Johnathan had instructed them to smile at the guests, nod their heads in deference and keep their eyes low. Still, he had not instructed them about Meric's condition because no one knew Meric's condition. So Meric would wear her cloak, and the servants would not be afraid.

The world appeared different now. Colors were duller, as if the castle were a painting that had aged five hundred years. Meric remembered the vibrant red curtains that had hung along some of these hallways. During the breakout, Cassius had trailed his hand along some of them, and the curtains had billowed in crimson hues. Yet here they appeared the color of dried blood, just as the torchlight flickering from bolted sconces seemed a pale yellow.

But when a handmaiden passed carrying a single tulip, Meric's eyes followed. The tulip was a vibrant purple far brighter than anything that surrounded it. It seemed to emanate light, the veins in its petals and leaves luminescent. Meric's single hand was gloved, but if she stared at the lines in her palms, she would see the same—vivid green, more spectacular than any of Johnathan's manmade decor.

She had stared in the mirror for hours, once she'd woken up. Solaria had nursed her back to health over several days, forcing the branches and twigs that had grown into her—and from her—to fall away. By that time, Meric had been able to feel the magical seal in her chest, heavier than it had been before but pleasantly solid. When she had finally stood again, her legs had felt strong, and she had seemed more herself than she'd been in days. But then she had looked in the mirror, and her face had fallen.

In most forests, change is slow. When one adds magic, change is fast—it brings vines bursting from the ground and flowers blowing from the trees—but when one removes magic, the rate of change is unbearable.

Meric would need to wait months before she appeared normal again. Looking at herself in the polished glass, she had felt this truth intrinsically. Her entire body had been tinged with green, the veins darker than the unsupported flesh, and her skin had seemed too firm—it felt like the skin of a pear, despite the blood beneath it. Her eyes, once a pleasant brown, had taken on an olive hue. But the bones had been worst of all, because they'd no longer seemed to be bones. Her fingers had been too thin, too pliable; she would not have been surprised to find they were made of wood. So Meric had stared into the mirror, and she had cried.

The morning of the parley, Meric had looked at her reflection again, the hood of her cloak pooled around her shoulders. No tears had come this time. Instead, she had gazed fervently into her own irises and wondered if they were a bit browner then they'd been the day before. Maybe her hands were browner, too, and softer; maybe her bones were harder. She'd left the room still wondering.

She wondered now, even as servants' eyes followed her down the Lemarian hallways. Being here reminded Meric of being used, her body co-opted for another's gain. The saboteur had stolen her magic in a forest just outside Lemaria, and she'd suffered its effects here. She'd had no idea that days later, a force she did not understand would twist her magic in a forest outside Fallholt. Both sensations had felt the same. They'd inspired that desperate desire in Meric to reclaim what was hers, the ever-present crawling feeling of something being there even when it wasn't.

They also inspired an anger, though Meric was careful to tame it. Anger had led her from one villain's hands into the next—the fury of falling victim to the saboteur had cost her her own magical control, and she had found herself starving in the woods because of it. No longer could she find strength in anger.

She would need to find strength in others, though the task would not be easy Meric's eyes moved to Cassius, who was contorting his face into ridiculous expressions, and to Shahin, who was forcing his gaze away from Cassius. These were the people she would need to rely upon. After all, she had chosen to become a knight, and the people with whom she worked would be her power and her help.

Yet she had not chosen the job out of loyalty. She had never truly desired knighthood; the occupation had been a route to her father, who had been a route to her mother. Both of her parents' locations were mysteries now, and knighthood could do nothing more for her. Considering that fact, how could these true knights become a family to her?

Still musing, Meric stopped in front of the council-room doors and heard the footsteps behind her disappear. Doors led into the council-room from all angles, letting council members from different wings of the castle go in easily. This entrance in particular was intended for military leaders, as King Gavin and company had accessed the castle through the knights' gate. Two of Johnathan's own knights guarded the polished oak doors, one with jet-black markings covering his face, the other with a dull green bandana tied across her forehead. Meric's eyes caught on the man's markings—though they seemed to be tattoos, the color was remarkably vivid.

The lady-knight knocked on the door behind her with one gauntlet-clad fist. At first, all was silent; then the door opened, and the council-room came into view.

The chamber in which Meric found herself was massive. Circular in shape, it housed twelve high-backed seats surrounding a broad table. The table itself was topped with marble, and its rainbow veins might have shimmered had Meric's sight been what she wished it to be. Maps of varying colors and contents adorned the dark-brown walls, some edges tattered, others crisp and new.

Though the table could seat twelve, only Johnathan and another knight were present. Both had taken chairs across the room, the height of which made the people seem smaller. Johnathan stared at the entourage stone-faced and did not move when they entered; the other knight, whom Sir Garner had described earlier as Sir Adeline, nodded curtly and waited for Gavin and Garner to take their seats. As the Adrigolian officials began to sit, the two Elusian knights filed into the room and stood behind Johnathan and Adeline, while Meric and the four Adrigolians lined the wall behind Gavin.

Johnathan's hair was immaculate, slicked into place with the precision of a skilled manservant. His navy coat was spotless, his crown gleamed atop his head, and he appeared every bit the born-and-raised monarch Garner had described. Looking at him now, Meric had expected to feel some flash of contempt—bitterness for the torture he had brought upon her, loathing for his inhumane tactics—but she experienced only mild curiosity. It was easier to make men into monsters whom Meric had never seen, particularly men who looked so small as Johnathan did.

Adeline, on the other hand, carried the threat of her presence in the way she sat. Every muscle was poised to lunge, as if Garner might raise his hand and cast a curse in spite of the parley. Her gaze was ice, and it froze Meric, though Adeline only looked at her once.

"Your highness," said King Gavin, and suddenly the room was his. He spoke plainly, with neither deference nor contempt; yet the moniker seemed to convey a great deal, and Johnathan's brow furrowed.

"Your highness," Johnathan replied. His words were loud, but they lacked the same power. On Meric's left, Cassius shifted in place, and Andrea's fingers curled and uncurled.

"I am glad we could meet today," Gavin continued, and the room was his again. "I understand you have many duties. Far be it from me to stand between you and your work."

Gavin was Johnathan's work, and everyone knew this. Johnathan only nodded and said, "The pleasure is all mine. Shall we discuss details?" When he said this, Meric was struck by how young he sounded. Of course, Johnathan himself was young, twenty-three years old if reports were correct. Meric wasn't sure how to feel, knowing that the ruler of a kingdom so vast had lived three years less than she had.

But Gavin and Johnathan were already conversing, and Johnathan's youth did not seem to impair him. As Gavin tossed statistics of Elusian losses into the conversation, somehow skirting around their being Adrigole's fault, Johnathan seemed to keep pace with numbers of his own. For every battle Elusia had lost, Johnathan knew of some skirmish that Elusia had won. He emphasized that Belmoor was thriving (though Belmoor was a pittance, and Gavin had intentionally left it alone); he spoke of his knights' strength (though according to Adrigolian spies, roughly four-fifths were dead or injured); he summoned a steward fifteen minutes into the conversation, who poured expensive wine for the seated officials. None of these seemed to sway Gavin. Shahin, who had been appointed to signal Garner advice if negotiations turned bad, barely moved as the discussion progressed.

When Gavin finished the last of his wine, Johnathan's eyes moved to the empty glass in his rival's hand. "Did you enjoy that?" he said with affected geniality. "Theo, show him the bottle." The steward approached from Gavin's right, holding the wine battle so Gavin might see the label. "Rare grapes," Johnathan continued. "Only one vineyard of its kind on the continent."

Gavin squinted at the label for a moment, then pointed to a phrase towards the bottom. "They are called 'everbright' grapes?" Gavin said, glancing back at Johnathan.

"That is correct."

Gavin turned away from the steward and clasped his hands over the tabletop. "Your highness," he said, and Meric began to feel as if Johnathan had made a mistake. "They certainly are rare grapes. However, your facts are...misguided. There may be one vineyard of its kind in Elusia, but there are at least three in Adrigole."

As a long silence fell over the table, Cassius's head turned toward Shahin, seemingly hoping to verify that this was accurate. Adeline frowned across the table, eyes darting from Johnathan to Gavin to Johnathan; Johnathan's face had gone pale, though Gavin's boast hadn't seemed consequential to Meric. Perhaps it meant more to Johnathan than it did to her. Perhaps his pride, and the conversation, had been unable to bear one more Elusian loss.

In the silence, as Johnathan stared at the marble tabletop, Gavin spoke softly: "You know what you must do."

Johnathan's fingers clenched the stem of his wineglass. "There is still time."

"You know," Gavin said again, "what you must do."

Adeline was shaking her head, murmuring, "No, my lord, you mustn't." Her gaze was trained completely on Johnathan now, the tension in her limbs somehow changed. "You are right, there is still time, give the conflict a month—"

"There is no time." Gavin's voice resounded across the room, and Johnathan's shoulders rose a little higher. "You know your own losses better than I ever could. You are a smart man, Johnathan, and you know what you must do."

For the first time, Johnathan seemed to realize that Adeline sat beside him. His head shifted toward her slowly, so that shadow fell over his face, and a pause followed. Finally, he said to her, "My father," so quietly that Meric could barely hear.

Adeline's lips twisted, then went flat again. All she said was, "You are king."

The silence that followed was indescribably heavy. Motives and histories were at play that Meric could not understand, and the scene she witnessed did not reflect the emotional workings underneath. For the first time, she realized that she did not truly know Gavin. She thought she had known him, as a ruler and a man, but both the ruler and the man were more complex than she had imagined during the welcome banquet. Johnathan, too, was a mystery, perhaps more so than Gavin. All four of the officials in this room were woven intricately together, invisibly so, and Meric felt the weight of those connections squeezing the breath from the council-room.

Finally, Johnathan spoke:

"The traditional way?"

He had addressed Gavin, though he had not turned to look at him. His voice was even, but it resounded less than it had before. In response, the knights on either side of Meric glanced at one another, and Cassius did not hide his attempts to facially demand an explanation from Shahin.

Gavin started to laugh. The sound was not malicious, though it was not entirely genuine, either. As he chuckled, he seemed to be following some sort of script than Johnathan had unwittingly begun. At last, he said, "You are fond of my daughter?"

The color began to return to Johnathan's cheeks. "I will grow fonder of her in the near future, I assume."

Gavin's laughter grew to a roar. "Surely you will," he said. "I have no doubt that you will." After the mirth faded, Gavin added, "I will guide the kingdom well. As the offering of my dear princess represents my trust in you, so too must you trust in me."

Finally, the conversation made sense.

Meric had not been schooled in the traditional practices of Adrigolian royalty. Gavin's remarks, however, made one practice clear: monarchs might exchange their children for other kingdoms, just as Gavin had exchanged his daughter for Elusia.

In a matter of moments, the war had ended. Johnathan had surrendered, and Gavin had claimed the land he had so desired. As Meric glanced from Johnathan to Gavin, though, the conflict did not feel finished. If anything, it had transformed. Johnathan's hollow-eyed stare indicated he would regret this decision for the rest of his life; Adeline's fist clenched on the table indicated she would work against Adrigole wherever and whenever she could; Garner's parted lips indicated he did not know where Adrigole would go from here; and Gavin's perfect smile indicated he knew exactly where it would go.

The conflict had left the battlefields and crept behind the walls of palaces. Meetings would occur over the next few months, and celebrations would be held, and a war would continue that no one would acknowledge still existed. Meric did not belong to this conflict. She never had, even when the battle had been part of her job. She never would, even when Gavin asked his champion knights to dine with him at the victors' table.

As the Adrigolians left the council-room, Meric found herself standing next to Garner, whose lavender cloak did not conceal his wide eyes and pursed lips. For a moment, their gazes met, and Meric supposed that the same question filled their minds.

Where would they go from here?

The Adrigolians lingered outside the council-room for a few minutes, Gavin debriefing Garner on their journey back to camp. The hallway in which they waited was awash with torch-light, and the silhouettes of Meric's companions slanted across the floor. For a moment, Meric imagined how the council-room's great doors might have looked normally, under all this light. The intricate carvings and metallic inlays should have been magnificent, but Meric's eyes could not appreciate them. The wood constituting those doors was dead, and they would appear dim and tarnished whether they were lit or not.

But others could benefit from the bright light. Meric only realized this when she sensed a bystander's eyes on her face; when she turned, she spotted a servant across the hallway. His pace had slowed while turning a corner, and he now stood stock-still, his arms piled high with linens, his gaze trained on her face. He was a wholly average-looking man of nineteen or twenty years, no one Meric recognized. The other servants had not watched her like this.

Why did he watch her like this?

The reason came to Meric in a burst of insight, and her hand reached for the hood of her cloak. In such an illuminated space, the hood would no longer cast shadows; her face, and her discoloration, would be on display for the whole castle.

She'd nearly grasped the hood and pulled it tight when the servant said, "I know you."

Meric's hand froze in midair. Though her heart still beat rapidly in her chest, the man did not seem alarmed at her appearance. From behind, her fellow knights continued to chatter and laugh, as if they hadn't seen or heard the servant; Gavin and Garner's discussion continued as well.

In the silence that ensued, Meric squinted at the brown-haired, plain-faced servant. His eyes hadn't shifted, and he spoke as if the circumstances—a servant addressing a foreign, green-hued knight—were entirely normal. "Well, I don't know you," he said, barely inflecting his words. "There's a man that looks like you. He sits in the Red Rafters every night, center bar, all alone." The servant paused, gaze unflinching, and added, "He your dad?"

Meric did not answer, and the servant took this opportunity to continue walking. In a few seconds' time, he was around the corner and out of sight; with a start, Meric realized she could not recall the features of his face, or the sound of his voice, or anything but the words he had spoken.

But she knew exactly where she would go from here.