Reubinon Palace, Pellarmus.
Four days after the attack.

Darragh frowned when he caught sight of the vase, empty of its flowers with just a bit of black soot smudged on the rim. I wondered if he could smell the tang of the cigarettes past the brine of the ocean beyond the open windows. It always sort of clung to Isla, faint and disguised behind perfumes and creams.

She'd argued that Darragh didn't pay attention to anything beyond his own scheming, but his gaze wasn't unkind as he caught sight of his younger sister.

I waited, my breath held, for him to say something about her smoking, but he didn't—he only offered us a small smile before he told Isla that she was needed elsewhere in the palace. An emissary from the visiting nation had arrived ahead of his sovereign and wanted to discuss some things with her. Isla's nose crinkled slightly at the tone in Darragh's voice, at the implication that she was to play hostess to strangers.

When she objected, citing me as a reason for her to delay her meeting, he only took up a place on my side. "I will escort Monroe." His hand on my elbow was a bit too tight for comfort as he said, "You should be off. You have other things to attend to. You can visit with your friend later."

Her friend.

As Isla looked at me, those jade eyes wide, I knew that was exactly what we were. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. Your secret is safe with me. Annalise is safe with me. I willed those words into my eyes, into the curl of my lips as I said to Darragh, "We were just going to check on Cohen."

The king of Pellarmus nodded a farewell to his sister and then turned us, guiding me away from Isla and towards a staircase at the far end of the hall. We walked in silence for a few minutes, the only sound my quiet whimpers of pain as we made our way down the stairs. Darragh kept in step with me, pausing to let me catch my breath when the pull of my stiches grew to be too much.

I was leaning against a wall, my palms pressed to the cool surface of it, when he said, "So, you're wearing it then."

I followed his gaze to the ring on my finger. I stiffened a little at the accusation in his voice. I didn't know Darragh, not beyond what Cohen had told me. I guess I owed him some gratitude, since he'd been the one to free us from Caine—but there was something about him, a cunning sort of air, that made me hesitate to call him anything more than a fragile ally. My distrust was only worsened by Isla's own feelings about him.

When I didn't respond, only balled my hand into a fist, Darragh said, "It's strange—because my spies told me your new king was clever. They called him a soldier. All of the reports hailed him as being someone I would need to watch out for. Someone who had been trained and taught to fight like I do. A great strategist, they said. He's a bastard that schemed his way onto a throne, after all. But then..." Darragh frowned, his eyes scanning me from head to foot. "That can't be true, can it?"

"What can't be true?" I pushed away from the wall, trying to ignore the bark of pain from my side as I turned back in the direction we'd been heading and continued towards the small medical ward.

His brows rose in response. As if he'd already forgotten what he'd said. Baiting me. He was baiting me. But, goddess, I was too damn tired to care.

I shook my head, careful to keep my eyes on the walkway ahead as I asked, "Why do you think Kai isn't a good strategist?"

"Because if he was, he wouldn't have handed you over so easily. A fatal mistake."

"You plan to use me against him?"

Darragh shrugged, his hand cold as it found my arm. Stabilizing, steadying—too close. All my life I'd been caged. I'd gone from cell to cell. And walking next to the king of Pellarmus, his callused hands gripping my forearm, was like standing at the mouth of yet another prison. That power in my blood thrummed—an answer to a question I was too afraid to ask myself.

When Darragh spoke again, his voice was laced with honey-sweetness. "No. No, of course not. I am only..." He pushed through a large set of oak doors and led us onto another hallway, another wing of the palace. He considered his next words for a moment, his green eyes darting across my face with an intensity that made my blood chill. "I am only telling you that I could. I could use you, Monroe Benson. I could wield you like a weapon against your king. And, if I chose to, it would be the ruin of him. I could have him on his knees."

We stopped short of another doorway. The pale sunlight streamed into the hallway from the open room. "And is that what you want?" I asked. "Is that your end game—you want to see Kai bow to you?"

Darragh stepped a bit closer to me and it took everything in me not to back away, not to run from him. A threat. He was a threat—but not like Caine. Not even like Viera or Larkin. Darragh was exactly as Isla had said, immersed in his own goals. His own plots. And it was frightening not knowing what role I played in them.

The king's voice was alarmingly gentle as he said, "Miss Benson, I intend to see your king dead. Dead and dethroned."

Don't react. Don't—Don't—

Oh goddess.

I blinked at Darragh, the only sign of surprise.

I'd known that my friends saw Kai as the enemy. I'd just told Isla as much. And yet—And yet hearing Darragh come out and say it. To hear him put that target on Kai's back...

I forced my voice to remain steady, indifferent, as I asked, "Then why not use me?" I glanced to the opened doorway. It was quiet inside and I wondered if anyone was listening to this. My thumb ran against the underside of Kai's ring as I said, "Why not use me, if I'm such a valuable weapon."

Darragh offered me a small smile. "Because I don't need any more weapons."

I swallowed. "Thank you for bringing me here. I—I'll have someone walk me back to my room when I'm finished." I turned, ready to get away from him, but paused when he reached for me, his hand feather light against my shoulder.

Darragh's smile turned almost sad as he said, "Monroe, I am not heartless. I realize what he was risking by sending you here. I don't doubt my spies. I'm sure your king—Kai—is a very skilled soldier. Very clever. The Vaylish military is similar to ours. Strict. I know it must require a great deal of dedication. The things you learn there, in training programs like that, are not easy to forget." He shrugged. "Sending you here, giving his enemy his biggest weakness, well...that wouldn't have been easy for him to do. I'm sure it went against every instinct. I may think it was a stupid move, but I won't deny respecting it."

"I—I want to go with you when you go back to Erydia."

Darragh's lips twitched. "You are here to stay, Monroe."

"No. No, I'm not. I have to—It's my country. It's my country and I owe it to myself to go back and fight for it."

"Even against him—your king?"

I dug deep, delved into that darkness in my heart—the bruised, broken part of me that still remained frozen on Sauenmyde. I forced myself to remember what it had been like to be that girl. I put myself back in that moment—standing in front of a crumbling rebellion, realizing I was trapped. I remembered, with vivid clarity, what it had been like to declare the man I loved—the person I trusted the most—as king.

Betrayed.

The tears that welled in my eyes were real. They sprang from a place of physical and emotional brokenness. And I did not hide them from Darragh as I said, "He hurt me. He hurt me and—and he'll pay for it."

Darragh had called Kai a bad strategist. I wondered what he thought of me. Could he smell the deceit? Did it linger on my skin the way cigarette smoke clung to Isla? No, I didn't think he could tell. Not when a small shred of me believed in what I'd said.

Not when that dark, sliver of power in my blood whispered that Kai did deserve to pay. He did deserve to lose everything. My throne, it seemed to say. He has my throne and I will take it. I will take what is mine.

I let venom drip into my voice as I said, "I'll make him pay for it."

"Why wear his ring then?"

"To remind myself what we had. What he broke." I swallowed and looked away from the king. "So, when you go to Erydia—when your troops enter the palace—I want to be there. I want to help."

The floorboards beyond the doorway creaked, that shaft of gray light flickering as someone moved through the room. Darragh stepped back from me, his face cast in shadows that made him look older—wiser. A spider, perched in a web, ready to strike. His lips twitched into a sly smile as he gave me a halfhearted bow and turned away from me.

"We'll see," he called over his shoulder. "We will see."

***

Cohen looked so small and fragile in that bed.

There was a tube down his throat and bandages littered his bare torso. When I arrived, the room was full—Anna and Britta sat in straight-back wood chairs, a small table holding a tray of tea set between them. As I stepped into the room, Anna lifted a finger to her lips. She offered me a tight smile and nodded to where Cohen lay. Nadia was curled into his side, her hand wrapped tightly around Cohen's limp fingers.

Her face was relaxed in sleep and I was thankful for that. She needed it. Even from where I stood, I could see the lines of exhaustion written all over her. Heidi had said that Nadia wasn't resting and that is was showing in her ability. She couldn't keep going like she was, not without burning herself out.

Britta's gaze remained on me as I rested against the doorframe. Those blue eyes of hers—so like Viera and Cohen's—ran over my body, as if she could see the bandages hidden beneath my shirt and trousers. I didn't know her well enough to read her expression. My only interactions with her had almost always been alongside Uri.

Britta was, I think, what Uri had always been expected to be. Poised, refined, beautiful. And, in her defense, Uri had been some of those things, when and where it suited her.

Anna reached out a hand to me and I crossed the room slowly, already feeling drained from the walk across the palace. I probably should have taken Annalise up on her offer to find a wheelchair. Anna offered me her chair, but I waved her off and instead opted to lean against the wall. "It can hurt worse to sit," I explained, careful to keep my voice quiet.

Anna frowned. "Are you feeling any better?"

I nodded. "Sore, mostly. Sleeping has helped. And the meds. Annalise—the healer they assigned to me—has been really generous with the painkillers, especially at night when it's the worst."

Britta's brow furrowed in thought. "I've met her...Really blonde hair and pale eyes, right? She's Erydian, I think."

I nodded. "I think that's why they've had her helping me."

She nodded. "Most of the healers here don't speak Erydi fluently. I've been translating for Nadia. The language barrier has been...difficult to maneuver. They teach the language in the schools here, but..." Britta shook her head dismissively. "Getting anyone to agree has been an ongoing issue."

Anna nodded. "They don't listen, the healers."

"They don't understand that she's goddess-touched. They think she's in the way. A nuisance." Britta chewed her bottom lip, the action so refreshingly normal, that I found myself relaxing a little more. "It took almost an hour after he'd been shot for me to convince them to let Nadia near enough to help him. We lost valuable time because they just didn't understand that she was trying to help."

"She's only just now fallen asleep," Anna said. "I'm sure she'd be sad to know she missed your visit."

"I won't wake her. I want her to sleep as much as she can. She needs it."

Britta leaned back in her chair, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. "It's been almost four full days of her refusing to sleep. She can barely keep her eyes open. When she got sick this morning—"

"Got sick?" I asked, alarmed.

Britta nodded. "Nerves, the healer said. Anxiety and lack of sleep. He's...Cohen might be dying and she's killing herself over it."

My throat burned as I whispered, "Dying? But—But he's survived this long. She—Nadia is healing him. She...It's her gift. How can he die if she's here to heal him?"

Anna poured a cup of tea for herself and then a second one for me. She added a generous helping of sugar and cream to my cup. "He's—things have been bad." She said, passing the cup to me. "Not as bad today as they have been in the past, but he isn't waking up. The healers don't understand why. Nadia doesn't understand why and blames herself. The poor thing is taking it personally."

Britta rubbed at her temples and sighed heavily. "She thinks she's failed him."

"But why can't she heal him?"

They were both quiet for a long moment. The only sound in the room the soft hum of one of the monitors on Cohen and the click of Anna's spoon against glass. Finally, Britta said, "The healers say his body is weak, but healing. What she's done—the healing she's accomplished over the last few days—it's honestly miraculous. Without her, he'd be dead. I mean it when I say: she is probably the only reason I am not planning a funeral right now." Britta's voice wavered against the words. "But at the end of the day—At the end of the day, Cohen has to fight too. She can hold onto his body and make his heart beat forever, but if he doesn't want to live..."

I looked down at my cup of tea. "Can anything be done about it?"

Anna glanced to Britta, waiting for the princess—the queen—to speak. When she didn't, she said, "Wait. It's all a waiting game now."

"Each day," Britta said, "She has healed more of him. One of the bullet wounds is already nearly gone because of her healing. She's been working steadily at it, trying not to wear herself out. I think by the end of the week, she'll have a good handle on the other two wounds. But the shots did a lot of damage. The bullets didn't all stay in one piece. One of them seems to have exploded upon impact—possibly a second one did too, but it's hard to tell."

"Where was he hit?"

"His shoulder, left arm, and in his upper left thigh. The one in his shoulder did the most damage." Britta pursed her lips and glanced over at me. "If Cohen doesn't live, it won't be because Nadia hasn't tried. I will—Regardless of what happens, I will owe her a life debt."

I looked over at where my friend slept, her face was pressed to Cohen's bare chest, her entire body seeming to cling to him—hold him here—even in sleep. No. If Cohen died, it would not be Nadia's fault. She was trying. She was trying and failing and I knew—I knew that even if we didn't place blame on her, she would blame herself forever if he didn't pull through.

Anna sipped her tea, her gaze following mine to where Cohen lay unconscious. "You know," she said softly, just to me, "They look more alike in sleep than they do awake. The nose is similar—the jaw line too."

I knew what she meant.

And she was right.

Cohen and Kai didn't really look like each other normally. But, just now, Cohen did resemble his half-brother. There was something about him, the vulnerability of his expression as he slept, that connected him to Kai. I could see it—see the slight resemblance there. And I could see it with Britta as well. Even though she looked the most like Viera, there was traces of the king in her, traces of Kai.

I wondered if she'd like him and consider him a friend if their circumstances were different. Britta looked at Cohen too and I knew she was thinking the same thing. She seemed to consider the comment, her brow furrowing with thought as she scanned Cohen's face.

I wanted to tell her about Kai.

He is tall, I wished to say. Dark hair. So dark, it's almost black. Golden brown eyes—Uri's eyes. Your father's eyes. Tan skin. Beautiful smile, but it's rare to see all of it. He is reserved. Careful. Hard to get to know. He is afraid of letting anyone too close. He holds everyone at arm's length—but when he lets you in, Britta, when he lets you close to him, he loves you with everything he has.

He is an artist. Sometimes, he will look at something for just a beat too long and you'll know, just by the way he is chewing his bottom lip, just by the slight tremble in his fingers, that he has already mapped it out. He has already begun to draw in his head. And you—Britta, you are lucky if he sets those eyes on you. If he sees something in you worth drawing—then you really are goddess-blessed, mark or no.

I wanted to say all of that. But I didn't.

I held back.

Waited.

It was strange to see Britta and Anna sitting together like this. They knew who each other was. Britta had to know that this woman, the person sitting next to her, had raised her sibling.

Had she asked about him at all? Did she want to know who Kai was? Or was she, like Darragh and everyone else, hell-bent on killing him? Would she even give him a chance to be anything but her enemy?

I wanted to ask, but now wasn't the time.

For weeks, I'd been straddling the line between stark truth and blood-soaked lies. I loved Kai, but I couldn't deny the anger I felt, the hurt that so often encompassed me. And while my game had changed from pretending to want the crown to pretending to want Kai dead—there had always been and still was a vein of truth in both deceptions.

I am a girl made of lies.

I took a sip of my tea, chewing on what I wanted to say. I made sure my face stayed neutral as I said, "Heidi told me that Erydia has declared war on Pellarmus."

Britta straightened at my words. Her blue eyes seemed to spark with anger and, for a moment, I thought she might not answer. But then she looked at Cohen and her face softened. "The letter arrived a day after the attack. If I had my way, I'd have an entire armada—the entire navy—sailing for Erydia. But..." Her mouth became a thin line and I could tell she was reeling herself back in. "But Darragh...my husband thinks we should wait. We've already got other plans in motion. There are things that need to be done before we can strike."

I waited in silence, trying to decide if I could ask my next question. I sipped my tea again, waiting to see if Britta would say more. The ocean outside the window was cast in shadows now—night having just enveloped the world in it's cool embrace. Across that ocean, Kai was king.

Kai had signed an edict for my death.

Kai had signed a declaration of war against me.

His ship—that monster of metal—had hurt us.

We could have died.

Cohen might still die.

The rage in my voice was real as I asked, "And what more is there to do before we go after them? If you've already got forces gathering in Erydia and an army here, what more is there to do?"

Britta's gaze shot to mine. I kept my expression guarded, still as stone, as she examined me. Friend or foe—I could almost see her considering my place in all of this.

You can trust me. Please. Please trust me.

"I am expecting news from my spies about next steps," she said. "We have—I've been told that Caine has factories in Messani creating weapons. We also have reports of other factories in Erydia making some sort of drug. Tacit, I think Nadia said it was called. Right now, my soldiers are working to infiltrate those factories and find out what's happening. Darragh wants to know what Caine has before we attack. And I—I am impatient, but I would like to better understand this drug. You—All three of you are weapons. If we could eliminate tacit, then I think we'd stand an even better chance of being successful."

"Why—Why include us at all?" I hated the uncertainty in my voice.

I wanted to be strong, to demand a place in her rebel army, but I was too afraid. Afraid of being tricked yet again. I didn't want to be used. Or caged. Or hurt. Not again. Not by Caine and certainly not by Britta Warwick.

She pursed her lips. "Well, Nadia asked to help." She nodded to the sleeping girl. "After the letter arrived, we talked about it. She was...Things with Cohen were bad. We thought we were going to lose him. And she was ready to fight."

Anna's brow furrowed in thought, as if remembering it. "A girl in love," she said quietly. "She's a girl in love and she was hurting. Hurting for both of them. People have fought and died over far less than what she has face—what all of you have faced."

Britta nodded. "Yes. That night, after things had settled, she asked if I would help the three of you. She says that you all want to fight with us, but that you can't do anything without tacit. And, honestly, Nadia makes a solid argument for her case—since her healing ability could really help us." Britta's voice turned quiet as she said, "It could have saved my sister, if she'd been able to use it after Uri was shot."

"Would...If you're made queen, what will happen to us?"

Britta pursed her lips. "That is Darragh's decision. But I would do what I could to help you retain your rights."

My rights.

I didn't know what rights I even had.

According to Erydian tradition and the religion that governed my country, I didn't have the right to do anything except compete in the Culling. Die or be queen—those were my rights.

I swallowed and looked down at my cup of tea. There would be time to figure all of this out. But time was never something I'd had a lot of and it took all of my self-control not to demand a more solid answer to my question.

I wanted Britta to be able to tell me what my life would look like. Would I have the same freedoms as anyone else? Would my people—our people—have more freedoms than they did now? Would she eradicate the Culling?

Instead of saying any of that, I said, "I met some people in the palace, a guy and a girl, who I think were working for you."

Britta's brows rose. "Oh?"

"Harper Vance and a guy named Birk."

Britta's brow furrowed. "I know Harper. Her father was one of my first recruits and was a very good friend to me. And Birk passes messages in and out of the palace. He's recently started helping refugees and rebels find safehouses."

"He's a tailor, I think."

Her mouth opened. "Yes. He's very good at what he does. He quickly became one of the top runners."

"Runners?"

She nodded; her attention fixed on the darkness gathering outside the window. "It's been difficult to get spies in and out of the palace. And news already travels so slowly across the ocean, sometimes taking weeks before it arrive. And even once the message is delivered it can be hard to know what is rumor and what is fact..." She shook her head dismissively, black curls falling loose from her bun as she explained, "We have a system of runners—individuals who can get in and out of the palace mostly unnoticed. Birk is one, and Harper does the job sometimes. It's usually reserved for lesser noticed people. Harper tends to draw more attention, since people know she is a reporter. But a tailor is the perfect disguise. They can get in and out unseen, and can return time and time again without suspicion."

I nodded, thinking of what Harper had said—"Are you relying on letters to communicate?"

She shook her head. "Not entirely. We use telephones, but rarely—since most devices in Gazda are bugged, and it's hard to get things like that outside of the capital city. We used coding and telegrams, but those things aren't any more accessible. Recently, we've used radios. But like telephones, they can be tapped." She sighed. "Mostly, we're working with a firm foundation. I worked hard to make sure most of the big pieces were set in place long before I came here and I have people I trust in Erydia making sure that my people are ready when the time comes."

I swallowed and glanced to where Cohen lay. "When were you going to tell him?" The question was cutting, a stab at an emotional wound I knew was just as fresh as the physical ones I now bore. "Were you going to wait until after the Culling? After we were all dead, after he'd married and had a new queen? Why—Why lie to him? Why let him think you were dead?"

Britta reached forward and grabbed a cup from the tea tray. She poured it slowly, adding only honey before she took a long sip. I waited, prepared to ask again if need be. This wasn't something I would back down from. Even if she was claiming she wanted to help us, she'd let Cohen worry for her. She'd let Cohen and Uri mourn.

After a few minutes, Britta spoke up, her voice just the barest whisper as she said, "My mother wasn't going to step down. You and I both know it. Cohen knew it too. And I'd heard whispers of a rebellion—I sought those voices out. But I was wary of it, especially when I tracked that source and realized that it had been building for years. Building and growing with Vayelle's support. It was also falling apart. People were turning from it. Realizing that perhaps Vayelle wasn't genuine in their desire to help. So, I found likeminded people. Erydians who had left that rebellion but hadn't forgotten what they'd started to fight for. They wanted change and...it was easy enough to become the beacon for that."

"But when were you going to tell Cohen?" I swallowed, thinking of how hurt my friend had been, both by me and my betrayal with the Culled and by the realization that his sister had worked against him too.

He'd had a hard time forgiving me. And our relationship had been brief. Brief and born of a desire to not be alone. We'd both been starved of affection and afraid and we'd sought comfort in each other. And when I'd lied to him, used him, he'd struggled to cope with it.

I couldn't imagine what it would be like to find out that his sister, the person who had always protected him and cared for him, had plotted against his birthright. Kace's betrayal had been bad, but this...this was worse.

And maybe I didn't have any right to judge her, but I felt compelled to say, "He didn't choose my rebellion, but I think he'd have chosen yours—if you'd offered it to him."

Her eyes shone. "I didn't know if it would work. I didn't know if I could really do it—kill my mother, I mean. But I needed to try. I was willing to do anything to end her. Even come here. Even marry someone I wasn't in love with. All because I needed to see her dead. I needed to save my people." She sniffled and glanced up at the ceiling, trying to stop her tears. "I couldn't risk telling Cohen. If I failed..." She shook her head. "If I failed, she'd have killed me. And I couldn't risk it. I couldn't let her hurt them too. Not Cohen and not Uri. If someone needed to die for it, risk dying for it, I was willing to do it. I'm still willing."

It wasn't the answer I'd expected. It wasn't really the answer she'd given Cohen. "Why—Why not say that to him the other day, when it all came out. Why not tell him that you were afraid of what Viera would do if she caught you?"

She stirred her tea slowly, her eyes locked on the swirling liquid as she said, "It doesn't matter what I say to him, Monroe. The truth is still the same. I am going to take back my family's throne. I am going to save my people. They have been suffering and starving for far too long. You, of all people, know that. You have seen the worst of Erydia. And those people, people like your family and the millions of other families who are struggling to survive in a world that is intended to serve only those who were born into luxury, the people who are starving and dying in our outer cities...those people deserve help."

"He agrees that Erydia needs change."

"I would have been willing to depose Cohen if it came to it. If he stood in my way, then I would have removed him. He knows it. There's nothing I could say to erase that. To erase the fact that I was willing to sacrifice his happiness if it meant I could make changes. I'd hoped to remove my mother and keep Cohen from ever even being involved, but things didn't go the way I'd planned. You and your rebels..." She trailed off. "Let's just say: you made a mess of things. A mess I now have to clean up."

We held each other's gaze for a long moment. That fire simmered in my blood and for once, I did not cool it. I did not push it down. I let that dark power whisper to me and I peered at it, met those ember eyes. It sang and I sang right back.

Shadow. Dark and deep and terrible.

I said, my voice soft and even, "I will not apologize to you for choosing myself. Not when you would have sat back and done nothing as I was forced to murder innocent girls. Not when you would have sat back while I was murdered. I will not regret joining the Culled. Not ever. Even if it was not the rebellion I had hoped it would be, it still got me out. Those damn letters, the papers and maps I sent to my brother—they saved me when no one else would. I saved myself."

"Monroe—"

I shook my head. "No. I don't want your excuses any more than Cohen does. He and I—we have apologized back and forth. We have broken each other in so many ways. And yes, I betrayed him. I did. And I hate that it came to that—but I became a monster for him. I became a monster because I had to. Because I could either become a monster or die." I shook my head. "So, I'm sorry your little rebellion didn't go the way you'd planned. Tough shit, Your Highness."

When I set my cup of tea of the table, it was steaming—the dark liquid near boiling.

I didn't wait for her to say anything else; I just muttered a quiet goodnight to Anna before I turned and strode from the room. Each step ached; the pain so bad it made my eyes water. But I forced my body to move, to stay steady. I counted each breath, praying to the goddess or these mystical Pellarmi gods that I wouldn't pass out.

I made it out of the medical ward and onto the adjacent hall. My hands were white knuckled as I hauled myself up the stairs. The windows on the hall were still wide open, the vase Isla had used as an ash tray was still empty of flowers.

Salt-kissed wind caressed my skin, brushing the hair back from my face. I took in a shuddering breath of it. I thought of the twenty-three Third Corps fires. I thought of the children trapped in the school. The hundreds of refugees I'd helped.

I thought of Leighton, who had somehow found his way back into Viera's story—too late.

And it was there, covered in sweat, shaking and gasping, I collapsed against the wall and wept.

***

Tough shit, Your Highness.

If you enjoyed this chapter: leave this emoji 💩 in the comments.

For more information on The Culled Crown series and other projects, follow me on Instagram (@briannajoyc) or check out my website (www.briannajoycrump.com).