‌ISAAK’S PALMS WERE DAMP. It had not been easy to evade Tolya and Tamar. The twins were seasoned mercenaries with a gift for appearing when they were least wanted.‌

But at his first glimpse of Ehri in the conservatory, he knew he would have gladly dodged a thousand trained soldiers to be here right now. He had no idea how she had lost her guards or how much time he would have with her before they were discovered. He only knew he wanted to look at her forever. Her gown was the color of green pears, its elaborate folds embroidered with falcons. Emerald combs glittered in the dark fall of her hair.

“Nikolai?” she asked, peering into the dimly lit conservatory.

Isaak, he wanted to beg her to say. What would it be like to hear her call him by his real name?

“I’m here,” he whispered. She turned and smiled, and it was like a fist to his chest. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to. My ladies have been fussing over me since sunrise. I didn’t think I’d find a second alone to escape them.”

“I’m glad you did.” That was an absurd understatement, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She took a step toward him, and without thinking, he took a step back, maintaining the distance between them. He saw the hurt on her face and felt like the worst kind of dolt.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, though he knew apologies did not come easily to kings.

She clasped her hands in front of her. “Did I … did I misunderstand?” “No,” he said. “No. But there’s something I need to tell you.” Isaak

turned on his heel, pacing in front of the orange trees, their sweet-

smelling blossoms clouding the air. He had planned countless things to say, but none of them seemed right in this moment. He was a poor boy from a small town. He was a palace guard. He’d thought he was happy. He had been happy until all this began. But now?

Isaak wished he could take her in his arms and kiss her, but he couldn’t do that when every word he’d spoken to her was a lie. And yet he couldn’t tell her the truth—not when he might put an entire nation at risk.

“Ehri …” he began. “If I were not a king …” he faltered. What was he trying to ask her exactly? He tried again. “What is it you like about me?”

She laughed, and his breath left his chest in a grateful rush at the sound. “Is this a test? Or does your pride just need stroking?”

“My pride is always in need of tender attention,” he said, then cursed beneath his breath. That was Nikolai talking, and he did not want to be Nikolai tonight. “Wait. I’ll tell you what I like about you. Your nerve. Your way with a practice sword. That you always say what you mean. The way you look when you tell stories of your house by the lake.”

She tilted her head, and for a moment an expression of such sadness flashed across her face.

“What is it?” he said, wanting only to wipe whatever had caused her pain from her mind.

“Nothing,” she said. “Only that I wish this moment could last.”

He wanted to tell her it could, but he didn’t know if that was true. He could offer her nothing. And here was the sticky reality: He had no idea what the Triumvirate truly wanted from him. Would they ask Isaak to play this role forever as they ran Ravka? He’d thought there was no way he could be the king they needed, but when he’d dined with Ehri, he’d started to wonder if maybe, with her by his side, he could. Would Genya and the others ever permit such a courtship? If they refused, would he have the courage to stand against them? And even worse, the thought that had kept him awake since that happy night on the island: What if the real king returned and chose Ehri as his bride? Would Isaak have to watch him court and marry her? Would he stand at attention in the chapel at the royal wedding? Would Ehri ever realize that the man she wed was not the man who had stood here in this conservatory, on this night, with his heart full of longing?

“I wish it could last too,” he said. “I wish there was no one in the world but you and me, that there were no countries, no kings and

queens.”

He took a step closer, and then she was gliding into the circle of his arms. She was lithe, almost wiry. She was perfect.

“Ehri,” he said as he drew her to him, as she tilted her beautiful face to his in invitation. “Could you love me if I was not a king?”

“I could,” she said, and he didn’t understand why her eyes were suddenly full of tears. “I know I could.”

“What’s wrong?” He cupped her cheek, brushing away the tears with his thumb.

“Nothing at all,” she whispered.

He felt a jolt, as if she’d shoved him, and looked down. Something was sticking out of his chest. His mind made sense of the shape as the pain hit. A dagger. The white handle was carved with a wolf. He heard a furious rapping against the glass, as if a bird were trying to get into the conservatory.

“Why?” he asked as he slid to the ground.

She fell with him, going to her knees, her tears flowing freely now. “For my country,” she said as she wept. “For my brother. For my queen.” “You don’t understand,” he tried to say. A laugh emerged from his

lips, but it sounded wrong, like a bubble popping.

“Forgive me,” she said, and yanked the dagger from his body.

Pain flooded through him as he felt the warm gush of blood from his wound.

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “My only comfort is that you never could have been mine. But know that I would have gladly been yours.”

“Ehri,” he moaned as the world began to go dark. “Not Ehri.”

From somewhere he could hear shouting, the sound of hurried footfalls running toward them.

“Everyone mourns the first blossom,” she recited softly.

Who will weep for the rest that fall?

Isaak watched, helpless, as she grasped the dagger and drove the blade into her own heart.