And all because of that cyborg and her wretched video and her stupid speeches.
“Sixteen agriculture sectors have refused to load the supply trains that were brought in,” Aimery rambled on, “and we are told that one unguarded train carrying dairy products, many intended for this week’s celebrations, was boarded by a group of civilians outside Sector AR-5 and stripped of supplies. We have been unable to retrieve any of those goods or apprehend the thieves at this time.” He cleared his throat. “In Sector GM-19, the citizens have blockaded two of the three maglev platforms, and this morning they killed twenty-four guards sent to tear down the blockades. We are compiling a thaumaturge-controlled regiment to send there as well.”
Levana rubbed a kink from her shoulder.
“In Sector SB-2—”
The elevator chimed in the center of the room, pulling Levana’s attention away from the city. Thaumaturge Lindwurm swooped in and dipped into a hasty bow, his black sleeves sc.r.a.ping the floor.
“Your Majesty.”
“If you are here to tell me that the outer sectors are in chaos and the people are in revolt, I am afraid you are sorely late.” She snapped her fingers at the servant who stood beside the elevator doors. “Bring wine.”
The servant scurried away.
“No, My Queen,” said Lindwurm. “I have news from the barracks, Regiment 117.”
“What? Are they in revolt too?” Levana cackled, though beneath her hysteria lurked a growing dread. Could that cyborg have turned her entire country against her with such ease?
“Perhaps, My Queen,” said Lindwurm.
Levana spun toward him. “What do you mean, perhaps? They are my soldiers. They cannot revolt against me.”
Lindwurm lowered his gaze. “Our security team received notice two hours ago that Princess Winter’s ident.i.ty had been tracked to the outside of those barracks.”
Levana’s smile vanished. “Winter?” She glanced at Aimery, who straightened, his own interest piqued. “So she is alive. But what would she be doing there?”
“The system picked up on her fingerprints being used to enter the barracks. After learning of the security breach, the eight remaining thaumaturges for Regiment 117 were sent to ascertain if the princess was posing a threat.”
“I suppose it is too much to hope that they found the dear girl ripped to b.l.o.o.d.y shreds.”
That’s what they should have found. The beasts should have killed Winter without hesitation—it was what they were designed to do. But she suspected that was not the case.
“From what we can ascertain,” said Lindwurm, “when the thaumaturges arrived, the soldiers turned on them and attacked. All eight are dead.”
Her blood ran hot, pounding at her temples. “And Winter?”
“The princess and the soldiers have abandoned the barracks. Security feeds showed them entering the nearest surface sector—LW-12. It is one of the sectors in upheaval, but we have not been considering them a high-priority threat.”
“You’re telling me that my soldiers have sided with the girl?”
Lindwurm dipped his head.
The servant returned carrying a silver tray with a decanter and crystal gla.s.s. Levana could hear the decanter trembling against the gla.s.s’s lip as her wine was poured. Levana barely felt the weight of the gla.s.s in her hand as she took it.
“Leave,” she ordered, and the servant couldn’t scramble away fast enough.
She glided back to the window. Her city. Her moon. The planet that she would someday rule hanging off the horizon, nearly full.
When she had given Jacin Clay the opportunity to earn back her favor by killing the princess, she had expected him to try something stupid, but she’d hoped he would realize how futile it was. She’d hoped he would choose to hasten Winter’s death as painlessly as possible rather than risk a much more brutal sentencing. That was mercy, after all. Mercy.
But he’d failed. Winter was still alive and she was trying to take Levana’s army away from her, just as she’d taken the people’s adoration, just as Selene was ruining everything.
She tried to picture the scene. Docile, half-crazy Winter, batting her lashes at the brutal beasts, and them falling for it. Oh, how they would fawn over her. How they would fall to their knees and beg to do her bidding. How they would follow their beloved princess anywhere.
“My Queen,” said Aimery, placing a fist against his chest, “I feel responsible that we failed to find the princess during our raid on RM-9. Please allow me this chance to atone for the error. I will go to this sector and see that the princess is dealt with. I will not fail again.”
She turned to face him. “You intend to kill her, Aimery?”
A pause—a slight one, but there all the same. “Of course, My Queen.”
Laughing, Levana took a draft of the wine. “It was not long ago when you asked to marry her. Do you think she is beautiful?”
He chuckled. “My Queen. Everyone thinks the princess is beautiful, but she is no match for Your Majesty. You are perfection.”
“I have begun to wonder if perfection might be its own flaw.” She smirked. “Though perhaps a flaw can contribute to perfection.” She pinned Aimery beneath her glare and adjusted her glamour, drawing three sharp, bloodied scratches down her right cheek.
He gulped.
“I’ve known you for many years, Aimery. I know how you like them broken. You would have made a good match after all … you are as pathetic as she is.” She hurled the goblet. Aimery ducked, blocking the gla.s.s with his forearm. It crashed to the floor, the wine spilling like a mix of water and blood, splattering on Levana’s shoes. “You will have your chance to prove yourself, but not where Winter is concerned. It seems no one has the stomach to do what must be done—not you, not Jacin Clay, not even my beloved pets. I am sick to death of disappointment.”