For his fourteenth birthday, Prince Albrecht had received a mirror that Jutta crafted with his mother’s gold. It was large and ornate, and he loved regarding himself naked in the quicksilvered glass. He took pleasure in the curves of his chest muscles. The plumpness of his biceps and buttocks. The glory of his legs. His favorite tree, the one that grew between his legs, was a thing of wonder.

Now, for the first time, he regarded himself in his mirror as the king. Not of the whole kingdom, as he should have been, but of the better half. The one where things were made by men, and because of this, the one that would annex the other before too much time had passed.

He’d taken his father’s suite of rooms as soon as the body had been carried away. The first thing he set up was the mirror, which he’d long made a habit of speaking to as though it might answer back. It didn’t, of course, although he could easily imagine a feminine tale of vanity taking place before just such an enchanted glass. His conversations with it were a way for him to practice how he looked when he spoke. To hone his expressions and gestures. This was part of the power of kings: looking right for the role. And it was something Ursula would never be able to do.

She was impressively large, yes, but there was no disguising the fact that she was neither a man nor exclusively human. Everyone knew she was a werebear, and while this was amusing in a princess because of its novelty, it was hardly the right thing for a ruler.

“Unity!” Albrecht said to the mirror.

He’d already decided this would be the phrase he’d use to excite his men. It was simple. Easy to remember. It sounded good and right. And if blood had to be spilled, well, sometimes a man had to split bodies to restore a sundered kingdom.

He kept looking around him for Hans. Curiously, he missed the were. His quiet intensity. His competence. His solemn demeanor. But needs must. It was a shame Hans had to be locked up with only rats for companions, but it wouldn’t be forever, just to keep him safe. What’s more, the boy was used to handling rats. They’d keep him company, and if he got hungry, he could always eat them.

To calm his mind and occupy his hands before he addressed his guard, Albrecht decided to tinker with a trap he’d been working on, a small iron box with a heavy blade inside that dropped as soon as a rodent crawled in. So far, results had been messy. Albrecht hated a mess almost as much as he hated rats.

He dismantled the box and removed the blade. Too heavy meant it would be too thick to achieve a quick cut; too thin meant it wouldn’t sink into anything with more give than a worm. He decided to try a thin blade that had been weighted. Then he fitted it into the box and baited the trap using a piece of his own dinner. He poked the meat into the mouth of the box. He felt a sudden burning, a pain so deep it pounded behind his eyes. He pulled out his hand. Half of his index finger was gone.

The wound at first was dry and deep red. He could see bone. Blood welled. He couldn’t stop the flow. Astonishing. The stump throbbed, and soon his hand was gloved in blood. He heated another blade and pressed the hot metal against his stump again and again, dizzy with sensation. When he’d cauterized the wound, he removed the blade. He was sweaty, the air smelled of cooked meat, and he wanted to vomit, but he resisted. Pain was life. He’d just become its master.

He regarded his not-finger, thinking about all the ways it would inconvenience him. Unless … Unless he could design himself a new one. Jutta would make it. Or Hans. Meanwhile, the wound would be useful. He would claim that Ursula had attacked him. Yes, she’d attacked him in his own room using a piece of glass from the mirror. She’d informed him that her kingdom would invade his, and that she herself would command an army of weres that had been trained to tear out the throats of children. They intended to establish supremacy for werefolk.

He laughed. This accident was a gift. A gift from Fate, who was making clear her desire that Albrecht restore the proper order to the world. With his intact hand, Albrecht pitched the trap at his mirror. It shattered, and now each piece held a reflection of him, as though he’d been multiplied.

Albrecht retrieved his severed finger. The first casualty of the Great Were War. He set it aside and sketched notions for a better finger than the one nature had given him. The ideas came faster than blood flow, and one by one, he pumped them into his book of devices, ignoring the pounding ache of the wound.

With the music of the woods as a backdrop, King Albrecht—I am king!—worked until the darkest part of the night arrived.

And then, his stump throbbing, he rallied his men.