I can only hope his sleeping habits have changed since we’ve been apart.

I make my way through the empty corridors of the palace, towards the office I was given.

I flick the lights on and sit down behind my desk. I begin to flip through some of the documents I requested on the First Free Men. There isn’t much on them. It makes me think they’re even more powerful than everyone believes.

Their leader is Styx Garcia, a thirty-six-year-old combat veteran who fought for the West before being honorably discharged. A photo of him is paper-clipped to the documents.

I pull it out and frown. He would be handsome except that his face is a patchwork of scars. They slice down his eyebrows and cheeks, drag across his nose, and claw upwards along the edge of his jaw.

The sight of all that mottled tissue has me touching my own scar.

And in the midst of it all, he’s got a pair of dark, soulless eyes. Just like the king’s.

I set the picture aside and read his biography in the file. Like me, he was born and raised in the northern territory of the Western United Nations. He spent over ten years on active duty; far, far longer than the amount of time I had.

At some point after that, though the document doesn’t say exactly when, he established the First Free Men. He’s been building it ever since.

I close the folder. By all indications, this man is just as power-hungry as all the other corrupt men I’ve met throughout this war. What I don’t understand is why the West would work with him at all.

Somewhere inside the palace, a grandfather clock tolls twice, my cue to leave my office.

My footfalls echo throughout the cavernous halls. This place rubs me the wrong way. There is a hollowness to the corridors that only exaggerates just how empty the place is, and yet I swear I can feel the weight of unseen eyes on me as I head to the king’s study.

His room is one of the few in the palace that has absolute privacy—or so I was told. We’ll see soon enough.

The king was right yesterday. I am keeping something else from him, something he would rebel against if he knew.

When I reach the door to his office, I press my thumb to the fingerprint scanner. It blinks green like I knew it would, then I’m inside.

I slide behind the king’s desk and pull out the set of instructions on setting up a video call from one of the royal computers. It takes five minutes to execute, and then I dial the number Styx’s men gave to me.

Almost immediately the call goes through.

The large monitor in front of me flickers, and then I’m staring at Styx Garcia in the flesh.

I appraise this man with narrowed eyes. He has even more scars than his photo let on, none quite so gruesome as the one that’s split open one of his nostrils.

This is a very dangerous man. It makes my decision to escape his men that much wiser.

“Your Majesty,” he says, dipping his head. “It’s an honor.”

I nod back to him. “Styx.”

He peers up at me as he straightens. His fascination is plain. And on his face, it’s an unsettling look.

“Your men woke me,” I say. It’s as good enough conversation starter as any.

He inclines his head.

My gaze moves behind him, to a stark, dimly-lit cement room. “How did you find me?” I ask.

His eyes are too bright. “With difficulty.”

My lips thin. “It’s two a.m. here. I want to go to bed. Please give me the straight answer.”

He flashes me a distinctly unsettling smile. It has my trigger finger twitching.

“Perhaps if you visit me,” he says, “I will tell you in person.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say.

This conversation won’t get anywhere if he keeps answering like this.

“Are you aware that there’s a bounty on my head?” he asks, straightening in his seat.

“I am.”

“And still you called,” he says.

“And you answered,” I reply.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He smiles pleasantly, the action contorting all his facial scars. “You’re the supposedly dead queen that’s come back to life. And you somehow managed to kill half a dozen of my best men when you escaped.” His gaze shifts subtly. I can tell he’s taking in the hair that spills over my shoulder. “I was very eager to speak with you.

“But,” he continues, “that doesn’t explain why you’re calling me.” He tilts his head, the gesture almost mocking. “Tell me, does the dear King of the East know you’re talking to me?”

I tighten my jaw. Styx is just another man that likes to toy with people.

“Tell me about your connection to the West,” I say instead.

Styx throws his hands out. “There it is,” he says. “Oh, you are transparent. You want my connection to the West.”

“I do.” I don’t bother denying it.

“Why?”

“I need to speak with the representatives,” I say. “Privately.”

Styx folds his hands over his chest. “You don’t want your king to know.” He says it with such satisfaction. “What makes you think I have the clearance to speak with the representatives?”

“You were going to hand me over to them. Your men said so themselves.”

“Hmmm …” He appraises me.

He sits forward suddenly. “You know, I always believed.” He stares at my scar with fascination. When his eyes meet mine again, an unnatural amount of fervor has entered them. “A woman like you can’t be killed so easily.”