Page 124 of To Dance with Death

And still hundreds more have died, maybe thousands, on both sides.

“There is such a thing as necessary death,” Anton says. “Necessary justice. And whether or not our choices in the matter are correct, we do the best we can. You thought only to save lives—with Rurik’s death, with Illian’s. The same can be said for today.”

But I’ll carry it with me all the same. Perhaps it won’t be so much guilt as it is sorrow on their behalf, for what could have been. The people they might have become.

“We…we have to repair it, Anton. The mirror. I vowed that we would. But it isn’t just that. Things can’t stay as they are—”

“You’re right,” he says. “I know that now.”

“The mirror must be returned by sunrise,” I say, eyeing the afternoon sun. “It can’t be gone for more than a day. It will allow us to open a portal into Ansa, at least.”

“We will make it,” Anton assures me. “In fact, I can repair it before then, so long as we leave within the hour.”

But before we can discuss it further, Basile approaches. “Your Majesty, how shall we deal with the traitor general?”

My father, he means. Not deserving of his crown.

“The choice is yours, Vasalie,” Anton tells me. Meanwhile, Basile keeps my father restrained, his arms manacled behind his back and his feet bound together. “You can force him into a trial before the Syndicate. Or you can deal with him yourself. You have earned this right.”

“Indeed,” says a new voice, and I pull away enough to see Sofya emerging, battle-clad in traditional Brisendali armor—steel plates, chain mail. Her eyes, as blue as Rurik’s, spear through the layers of sea fog and smoke now wafting in from soldiers battling the fires from the ships. Beside her, another soldier approaches, and it’s only once he lifts his helm that I realize it’s…Copelan.

The relief of seeing him alive and well brings a tear to my eye, but I inhale a steadying breath and turn my focus back to the matter at hand.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” I say, “if you want to put him on trial.”

“That would be the right thing to do, according to our laws,”Sofya says. “But he orchestrated my brother’s death. He stole his throne, his army, and massacred hundreds. He would have slaughtered thousands more had he not been stopped. The Brisendali council is not here. I will claim he died in the war.”

“As will I,” says Queen Sadira.

“And I,” Anton affirms, squeezing my arm.

Finally, I summon the courage to look upon my father, though doing so only tightens my throat into a painful cinch. He looks…pathetic. Pale, sand-crusted skin burned by weeks at sea, his entire complexion ruddy and worn. Up close is a reminder of how small he is, too. He isn’t much taller than I am, despite his overcompensation over the years with his uniforms, his caps, and now his heavy, steel-wrapped helm. That, I yank from his head, tossing it into the sand. All the while, he avoids my gaze, no doubt shamed over his loss.

Then I force him to meet my eyes, difficult as it is to stomach it.

He doesn’t even flinch, his gaze harder than a rod of steel. It only serves to rouse my ire. This is the man who murdered Emilia, who thought to sell me like cattle, who plotted the demise of my friends and their homes. He wanted the world to kneel before him, but I will be the one to force him on his knees. I unsheathe the sword from Anton’s scabbard, my palms sweaty and my arms shaking, and come to stand before my father.

Yet even as my arms strain to lift the sword’s weight, the tip aiming at my father’s neck, my mind urging me to take my revenge, to end his life…

“No more death,” I breathe, letting it fall. “Not at my hands.”

Justice or not, deserved or not, I choose not to be haunted by this memory. Instead I walk the sword to Queen Sadira, pressing the hilt into her palms. “You deserve this justice,” I say. “He murdered your son. He went after your people and your lands, manipulated a willing Illian into doing the same.”

Her fingers curl around the hilt, surprise lifting her brows before they harden, her sharp glare cutting toward my father.

“Your Grace,” Anton says softly. “You should know that I sent Sundar’s body alongside an escort back to Ansa. We will try to preserve him, but I cannot guarantee his return, as much as I would like. It may be too late. For what it’s worth, I agree with Vasalie. Maksim Stova’s fate is in your hands.”

She nods, swallows thickly, then approaches my father, holding the sword with deadly, practiced poise far better than I ever could.

“For disrespecting my lands and the lands of others, for scheming to kill and destroy, for manipulating and grooming the young, for murdering my son—and your own wife, Emilia Stova—for abusing your daughter, and for your countless sins thereafter, I hereby sentence you to Morta’s Lair. May her judgment cause your soul the anguish you deserve.”

The strike is clean, swift, but I see it only from the corner of my eye, my gaze clinging to Anton’s. He steps in front of me, brings my head against his chest as a thud hits the ground, protecting my eyes as he always has, just like in Estienne’s lair, not wanting me to see something that might haunt my thoughts.

The queen’s justice is enough for me, and I feel like I can finally take a full, satisfied breath.

Chapter Forty-Four

The cleanup begins immediately, both Queen Sadira and Anton issuing orders to tend to the wounded and search the battlefield for survivors from both sides. Those in league with Maksim will be treated and handed to Sofya; they will answer for their allegiance in Brisendale.