The next morning, my crown feels heavier.
It's ridiculous. It's the same piece of dark metal and blood-red gems I've worn since this whole spectacle began. Yesterday it sat on my head without protest. Today, my neck aches.
I blame the market.
"Hold still, Your Highness," my maid murmurs, trying to straighten the tiara as I fidget.
"I am still," I mutter.
"You keep…bristling," she says gently.
That's one way to describe it.
Iris rolls out below my window like a painting: tidy streets, bright awnings, flags fluttering side by side. Iris gold. Darkstorm red. From up here, everything looks beautiful.
From down there, Farron's voice reminds me, it looks thin.
Hungry.
I can't un-hear Marla's words. The storm in a silk coat. The garden queen who cares more about birds than bowls.
The spark.
I used to like being called that. It sounded exciting. Reckless in the right way. Now, with the broken crown carving their symbol into our stone, spark feels like a threat.
"Rome?"
My mother's reflection appears over my shoulder in the mirror. She's already dressed for yet another council, gown a soft green today, crown gleaming faintly in the morning light. Her eyes travel from my face to the crooked tilt of my tiara.
"You're thinking too hard," she says.
"I'm breathing," I correct. "Thinking is a side effect."
She smiles, then steps closer and touches my shoulder.
"I heard you and Axel went wandering," she says lightly.
Of course she did.
"Wandering is a strong word," I reply. "We merely left the palace, disguised ourselves as commoners, walked through the market everyone is terrified of, and spoke to people we weren't supposed to know existed. Very tame."
Her brows rise. "And you came back," she says. "With all your limbs. That already makes this a more successful outing than most of Lucia's hunting trips."
Despite myself, I laugh.
Her expression sobers.
"What did you see?" she asks quietly.
Hunger.
Exhaustion.
The scratch of a half-erased crown on a well that wasn't supposed to matter anymore.
"People who don't care what we call ourselves as long as their children stop going to sleep hungry," I say. "People who listen to anyone who actually stands in their square instead of on a balcony. Rebels. Spies. Bakers with better political insight than half our ministers."
She nods slowly, as if that matches her own quiet suspicions.
"And how did they see you?" she asks.
I hesitate.
"Some of them didn't," I say. "Which was…strange. Comforting. Unsettling." I twist my ring, remembering Marla's blunt words. "Some think I'm a girl who likes birds more than bread. Some think I'm a risk. Some think I'm a spark someone else threw into this mess."
Her gaze sharpens.
"And you?" she presses. "What do you think you are?"
I look at my reflection.
Crown. Necklace. Dark curls tamed into something almost respectable.
I see the girl who bled on her own stairs.
The woman who said I do with her voice steady and her knees shaking.
The spark.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "But I think the market will decide before the court does."
She studies me a long moment.
"Then give them something to decide on," she says. "You don't have to be everything they want. But you can't be nothing. Not now."
Her hand squeezes my shoulder once, then falls away.
"Council in ten minutes," she says softly. "They're already sharpening quills."
"Better than knives," I mutter.
"For now," she replies, and sweeps from the room.
The council chamber is already humming when I arrive.
Maps sprawl across the table. Patrol routes. Supply lines. Little carved markers for guard posts and watchtowers. It looks like the world's most exhausting board game.
Darius stands at one end, speaking quietly to two Darkstorm generals. My father and mother confer with a cluster of Iris ministers. Lucia sits in her usual place, an island of black silk and sharp attention amid the chaos, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the arm of her chair.
Axel leans over a map near the middle, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed, a frown pulling at his mouth.
He looks up the moment I step in.
I don't know if he hears my footsteps or if we're just getting good at this, but his gaze finds mine like it always does now.
"Princess," he says. There's a flicker of something softer behind the word.
"Storm," I reply under my breath as I take the seat beside him.
A tiny smile touches his lips.
"You look…" He searches for a word that won't get his head removed in front of both our parents. "…terrifyingly determined."
"Good," I say. "I plan on ruining someone's day."
Lucia's eyes narrow fractionally. "Whose?" she asks.
I fold my hands on the table.
"Whoever tells me we cannot go back to the west market," I say.
Silence drops like a stone.
Darius blinks. "You want to…what?"
"Return," I say. "Not in disguise. Not as bored nobles slumming for a story. As who we are. As heir and almost-queen. As the people whose names are being painted on broken crowns."
"Absolutely not," one of the Darkstorm generals snaps. "The risk—"
"Is already there," I cut in. "The broken crown is already in the market. Already in our wells. In your walls. They're using our silence. Our distance. As proof we don't care."
"They are using fear," Lucia says coolly. "You would answer with theatrics?"
"Visibility is not theatrics," I say, keeping my tone even. "We talk about unity from this room. They talk about us from theirs. Right now, the only ones who stand in their square and say the word you are men like the ones who tried to blow up your gate."
Marla's voice echoes in my mind.
Because they listen back.
Axel clears his throat.
"I agree with her," he says.
The room goes even quieter.
Lucia lifts a brow. "You agree that we should send you—our single heir—into a quarter we know is crawling with rebels and sympathizers?"
"Yes," he says calmly. "With precautions. With guards. With eyes in every alley. But yes." He meets her gaze steadily. "If I never step outside these walls without a wall of steel around me, they will say Darkstorm sent them a prince too afraid to breathe their air."
"And they will be right," one of her generals mutters.
Lucia ignores him, still watching us.
"Their insult does not kill you," she says. "An arrow would."
"So we make arrows harder and insults weaker," I say. "We increase quiet patrols, like we already planned. We keep archers at a distance, hidden. We let healers mingle in the crowd as vendors or passersby. We control the routes in and out."
"And then?" my father asks, his voice carefully neutral. "What do you do when you get there, hija? Wave?"
I glance at Axel.
He nods, giving me the space to say it.
"We talk," I say simply. "On the fountain. Where everyone can see us."
"In the open," Lucia repeats. "Where a single shot could—"
"Hit us just as well on a balcony," Axel cuts in quietly. "We already gave them that stage. It didn't stop them."
Darius rubs a hand over his face. "You expect a spontaneous…what? Rally?"
"No," I say. "I expect questions. Anger. Suspicion. All the things they're already feeling, just directed at the people who actually made the choices instead of at each other."
One of the Iris ministers sniffs. "The princess would risk turning the market into a mob."
"It already is a mob," Adam says from his spot by the wall. He's lounging, but his voice is sharp. "A quiet, simmering one. I've seen that look in enough border towns to know what comes next if someone doesn't give them an outlet that isn't a bomb."
Lucia's gaze flicks to him. "And you approve of this madness?"
"I approve of doing something before the broken crown does it for you," Adam says. "If you don't want your people's first image of their unified rulers to be a wanted poster, you might consider letting them see your faces in daylight."
My mother's fingers drum softly on the table.
"Security will be a nightmare," she says. "Every lord in this room will have a fit. The risk is real."
My father looks between Axel and me for a long time.
"And yet," he murmurs, "my daughter is not wrong."
Axel glances at him, surprised.
"You have always told me," my father continues, voice steady, "that we serve at the pleasure of our people. That crowns mean nothing without those who look up at them and say, 'Yes, I accept this.' We have taken much from them. Sons. Coin. Faith. Perhaps it is…time to give at least our presence."
"Presence does not fill bellies," one Darkstorm advisor mutters.
"No," I say. "But it might convince people we're not the ones emptying them on purpose."
Darius exhales slowly.
"Logistics," he says at last, turning to the generals. "Time. Route. Guard formations. I want a plan on this table by sundown if we even consider this."
Lucia's jaw tightens. I can almost hear her teeth grinding.
"Do not mistake consideration for agreement," she says.
Axel leans forward.
"Mother," he says quietly. "If we never show our faces outside of ceremonies, they will believe whatever picture our enemies paint." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "You always taught me to control the narrative before someone else does."
Her eyes narrow the tiniest bit, as if she resents her own lesson being used against her.
After a long moment, she sighs.
"Very well," she says. "We will see your precious plan." She looks at me then, gaze sharp. "But understand this, Rome of Iris: if you stand on that fountain and falter, if you let them see doubt instead of steel, you will not only endanger yourself. You will cut the legs from under my son's throne before he ever sits on it."
I meet her stare head-on.
"Then I won't falter," I say.
She studies me, then inclines her head a fraction.
"Good," she says. "Because I will not drag your corpse back to this room and listen to these men tell me they warned us."
Cheerful.
By the time council breaks, my head is pounding.
I slip out into the corridor and lean briefly against the cool stone, letting my eyes close.
"They're going to do it," a voice says.
I open my eyes.
Olivia stands a few paces away, hands twisted in the fabric of her skirt, expression equal parts fear and something like excitement.
"Maybe," I say. "They're going to argue about it first. A lot."
She makes a face. "Of course they are. They argue about the color of candles."
She pads closer, dark eyes searching mine.
"Are you sure?" she asks softly. "About…all of this? The market. The fountain. Letting them see you."
"No," I say honestly. "I am not sure about anything. I'm just…done with letting the broken crown be the only one brave enough to stand where it's dangerous."
Her throat bobs.
"I'll be there," she blurts. "If they let you go. I'll be in the crowd. Watching. Listening." She straightens, chin lifting. "If anyone tries something, they'll have to get through me first."
A laugh escapes me.
"Olivia," I say. "You're five foot nothing and you forget your shoes when you're distracted. You are not my first line of defense."
She flushes, but her jaw sets.
"I can be your eyes," she insists. "Your ears. I know how people in Darkstorm talk when they think no one important can hear them. I can tell when they're about to do something stupid."
I study her.
She's right.
She's also one more person I care about between me and a symbol painted in blood.
"Fine," I say. "But you stay in the back. And you keep one of those charms you gave us. If anything feels wrong, you snap it and run to the nearest wall."
She beams.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she says.
I grimace. "Don't call me that yet. I'm still adjusting to Princess Who Doesn't Listen."
"Oh, that one fits," she says sweetly.
We both laugh.
The sound feels like a small rebellion of its own.
In the afternoon, Axel finds me in the practice yard.
I shouldn't be there. Technically, newly wedded princess-queens are supposed to spend their days writing thank-you notes and learning how to arrange flowers in politically neutral ways.
Instead, I'm hacking at a training dummy hard enough to make the stable boys stare.
"Lesson thirteen," Axel calls from the edge of the yard. "When in doubt, traumatize the staff."
I drive the wooden sword into the dummy's gut one more time before lowering it, panting.
"Training," I say. "In case the broken crown decides to show up before our guard captains finish their arguments."
He steps into the yard, rolling his shoulders.
"Again?" he asks, nodding at the dummy.
I smirk. "Afraid I'll bruise your royal ego?"
"Terrified," he says dryly, picking up another sword and twirling it once with easy familiarity. "But I did promise I'd be your shield and your sword. Might as well make sure I can keep up."
We circle each other in the dust, the afternoon sun high and bright.
It feels almost like that first battle in the halls: instinct, motion, breath.
Only this time, the person across from me is not a rebel.
He lunges first.
I parry, the impact jolting up my arm.
We move.
Strike. Block. Step.
Sweat beads at his temple. My hairline dampens under the tiara's band. Neither of us yields.
"It's going to be chaos," I say between blows. "The market. The fountain. Farron. Marla. The girl. Liora's people."
"I know," he says. "Left."
I feint right, then swing left anyway.
He barely deflects it in time.
"You're not going to be able to control it," I warn.
"Good," he grunts. "Control is overrated."
"That's a new opinion for you," I say.
He huffs a laugh.
"You changed some things," he says softly, pivoting away from my next strike. "Whether you meant to or not."
I falter for half a heartbeat.
His sword taps my shoulder, a gentle reminder of my mistake.
"Distracted, Princess," he says.
"Thinking," I retort.
"Same thing," he replies.
We stop at last, both breathing hard, wooden swords lowered.
For a moment, the world is just dust and sweat and the echo of our own hearts in our ears.
"So," he says quietly. "We might get ourselves killed in a market."
"Possibly," I say.
"We might make things worse," he continues.
"Also possible," I agree.
"We might make them better," he adds.
Hope is a dangerous spark.
I let it catch anyway.
"We might," I say.
He steps closer, close enough that the sweat on his jaw catches the light.
"Last chance to back out," he says. "Tell them it was a foolish idea. Blame me. Say Darkstorm corrupted you."
I snort.
"You're three months late for that," I say.
He smiles.
"Good," he murmurs. "Because I was never going alone."
He lifts a hand as if to tuck a curl back from my face, then seems to think better of it and lets it drop.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Or the next day. As soon as the captains are done drawing circles on maps. We go to the fountain."
"Together," I say.
"Always," he replies.
The word hangs between us.
Too big.
Exactly the right size.
That night, I stand at my window again.
The city stretches below, a mess of roofs and lights and shadows.
Somewhere down there, Farron is mending nets.
Marla is baking bread.
The girl is darting through alleys, hands quicker than any guard's eyes.
And the broken crown is waiting.
"Soon," I whisper to the dark. "You wanted a spark."
I touch the scar at my stomach, the weight of the necklace at my chest, the faint indent on my wrist where silk once bit into my skin.
"You're about to get a fire."
Behind me, I hear Axel shift in his sleep.
For once, I don't look back.
Tomorrow—or the day after—we will stand where it's dangerous and let them see who we are.
Not puppets.
Not ghosts on balconies.
People.
Terrified.
Flawed.
Choosing anyway.
If this is what being their queen means, then I will be it.
On my terms.
With him.
And if the broken crown wants to crack the kingdom open in front of us, I intend to be there when it happens.
Sword in hand.
Crown on.
And every eye is watching.