“Now more than ever, Lady Rielle,” the Archon had said, “our people need hope. We cannot wait until the winter solstice to crown you. Celdarians need their Sun Queen to help them through the days to come.”

And what hope, she wanted to ask, can they possibly find in a killer such as me?

In the Hall of Saints, Rielle closed her eyes to fight back tears. Were it not for her, Corien would not have invaded the fire trial. The Sauvillier soldiers he’d entrapped would be at home in the north, and those innocents who had died in the hillside skirmish would be alive.

Ludivine. Papa. King Bastien. Lord Dervin.

The names cycled constantly through her mind, nicking away at the crumbling shell of her heart.

Ludivine.

The final count, according to the Lord of Letters’s report, was fifty-eight dead. Their blood now coated her hands, and she could not reveal the truth about why. Not yet. Not ever. Maybe, if Ludivine were still alive, Rielle would have dared confess to her.

Ludivine, she thought, despairing, I’m so sorry.

She opened her eyes to the waiting crowd, managed a solemn smile. The entirety of King Bastien’s court and the city’s elite had gathered inside the hall. Outside Baingarde, a throng of citizens waited in the stone yard at the castle’s entrance. At midday, after the Archon’s blessing, the solstice bells would ring.

Rielle looked ahead at the gold-plated altar, shining under the light of a thousand candles. The Archon waited for her in his formal robes. Behind him, in the rafters, stood a choir of temple acolytes singing “The Song of Saint Katell.”

She took a deep breath and began the long walk toward him, leaving her guards standing at the doors.

Weeks ago, she had made this same journey, frightened and uncertain beneath the stern eyes of the saints. On that day the hall had been mostly empty, and her walk had been lined with guards prepared to kill her.

But today the crowded room watched her progress with shining eyes. Reverent whispers rippled through them as she passed.

Ludivine had, apparently, commissioned the gown without Rielle’s knowledge. Ludivine’s red-eyed servants had brought it to Rielle three days before for final adjustments. She had taken one look at the gown and barely managed to send the servants away in time before losing her composure.

It was a vision in pale Astavari lace. The wide neckline left her shoulders bare. Long, airy sleeves fell to the floor, trailing beside the train of her skirt. A shimmering iridescent lining clung to her torso, shining through the lace’s fine weave. The effect made her look as though she had been dipped in liquid sunlight. Ludivine’s servants had begged permission to weave fine golden ribbons through the dark fall of her hair and paint glittering amber swirls around her eyes.

“Lady Ludivine would want us to take care of you,” the eldest of them had said, her mouth trembling, “and make you resplendent as the sun, my lady. And so we shall.”

But, walking through the hall, Rielle cared nothing for the gown, nor the murmurs of appreciation from the people she passed. Her fingers itched to clutch the necklace at her throat.

Instead, she found Audric sitting beside his father’s empty throne, and took comfort from the weary warmth of his eyes.

He’d given the necklace to her that morning, knocking at her door when she was still bleary-eyed from yet another sleepless night.

“For you,” he had said simply and folded the necklace into her hand. He’d kissed her knuckles and the inside of her wrist, closed his eyes, and let his mouth linger against her skin.

Standing a few feet away with her gaze resolutely on the wall, Evyline had cleared her throat.

“Audric,” Rielle had said, her voice breaking, “must I do this thing? With our fathers not even given proper rites—”

“Today, the sun will shine long and bright.” He’d touched her face, his own worn with grief. “But not as bright as you. Please, Rielle. Our people need to see you.”

Now, a smooth white-gold sun sat on a delicate chain between her collarbones. Its broad rays fanned out in gilded leaves thin as butterfly wings, and when Rielle knelt before the Archon, the light fell upon it and sent a sunburst flying across the ceiling.

The Archon placed a hand heavy with rings on her bowed head.

“The Gate will fall,” he began, the familiar words of Aryava’s prophecy bringing a hush to the room. The choir’s voices softened. “The angels will return and bring ruin to the world. You will know this time by the rise of two human Queens—one of blood, and one of light. One with the power to save the world. One with the power to destroy it. Two Queens will rise. They will carry the power of the Seven. They will carry your fate in their hands. Two Queens will rise.”

One of blood.

One of light.

Rielle stared at her clasped hands, longed to scrub them clean. Her clammy skin itched. She had a vision of herself peeling it away to reveal the roiling black truth of what lay beneath.

The Archon stepped back from her. “Lady Rielle Dardenne, you have passed the trials set before you by the Church and withstood great danger in doing so. This kingdom has watched you carefully over the past few weeks, and your power is unlike anything we have seen. Tell us, then, Lady Rielle: Which Queen are you?”

One of blood.

One of blood.

Rielle met the Archon’s eyes. “I am the Queen of Light, Your Holiness. And I will serve Celdaria proudly until the end of my days.”

The Archon smiled and extended his hand. “Then rise, Lady Rielle, and let us begin—”

A cry from the back of the hall interrupted him, followed by another, then a third. A clamor of astonishment and fear filled the room.

The Archon’s face paled, his eyes fixed on something behind Rielle. He took a step back, reaching for his chair.

Audric shot to his feet, his hand around his mother’s. Queen Genoveve’s soft cry came out shattered.

Rielle turned, dread plugging her lungs. Was it Corien? Had he come ready to shout the truth of what she was for all to hear?

It was not Corien.

Ludivine, barefoot, hair a tumble of gold, stepped out of the crowd.

She clutched a tattered cloak at her throat and hips; beneath it she wore nothing. Her skin was ashen, but whole. She was alive… She was alive.

Rielle made a choked sound, swaying where she stood.

Ludivine climbed the altar steps, caught Rielle’s hands with one of her own. Her touch was warm, familiar. She turned to face the room.

Out loud, Ludivine’s shaking voice rose above the crowd’s stunned voices. “I know this is startling, even frightening. Please forgive me.”

Inside Rielle’s mind, Ludivine whispered, I’m so sorry you had to find out like this. Please, trust me. We must be careful.