By dawn, Albrecht was back in his chambers. Out of habit, he glanced to where his mirror had stood. The frame was empty. Shards of glass littered the floor. But he didn’t need a mirror to know how he looked. Triumphant. Filthy. Dressed in the blood of his enemies.

Like a king.

His mask still hung around his neck. He removed it and set it on his desk. It was pitted now where blood had touched it, but that only made it look better.

The kingdom was unified, and it was his. His sister was dead. He’d watched the arrow hit. Seen her fall. He’d also watched her run off like the fool she was. The injury wasn’t survivable.

What’s more, the frisser row was burned; nothing but ash-filled cages remained. The fields were full of their bodies. Some frissers had escaped to the woods, but it would only be a matter of time before he and a team of men hunted them down. The surviving farmers had sworn their fealty, and he’d promised them help replanting in the spring. Many of his soldiers had at one point been farmers, so they’d be good at this. What’s more, they would be there to crush insurrections before they started.

This was what swiftness did. This was what decisiveness did. It was how you made the world what you wanted it to be. It was a shame that it had required bloodshed, but that was not his fault. Had his father done the right thing in the first place, Albrecht would have taken the throne without requiring a single spilled drop. Likewise, Ursula could have stepped aside. He had not asked her to directly; that was true, but she knew he wanted it. Asking would have alerted her to the attack, which would have made it more dangerous for all. He’d had no choice, really. Others had taken that from him.

“Jutta!”

With Hans in the dungeon, he’d moved Jutta into the castle to help him build a replacement finger. More than one, actually. His wound would need to heal first, but he was eager to try the devices he’d sketched. He’d thought of several ideas, each a better finger than the one nature had supplied.

“Jutta!”

He poked his head into the corridor and there she was, rubbing her eyes, as though he’d woken her. Understandable. It had been a long and eventful night, and she’d worked nonstop, sharpening blades and pounding out arrows. He hadn’t slept himself, but he was so exhilarated from his victory that he couldn’t imagine putting head to pillow.

He led her to his desk and showed her the sketches.

“And what substance will we use?” she asked.

“Use the metal you think best. I trust you. Just make them perfect.” She’d never let him down, not once. He felt a rush of gratitude. He put his uninjured hand on her shoulder. “You’re special. You could be among the last of them, you know.”

“The last of them?” Her eyebrows drew together.

“The last of weres. What if they all perished last night, all but you and Hans?”

“I—” She paused, as if choosing her words with care. “I do not think that is possible or likely. Many of them were—are—children. Surely …”

“You’re probably right, friend,” he said. “The children are especially difficult to kill. Smaller targets. And I’d forgotten that more can always be bred.”

Jutta closed her eyes and shuddered, a very equine gesture.

“I will never let anyone harm you,” he said. “Where would I be without you? Rest if you’d like. You can start work in a few hours. Meanwhile, I must fetch Hans. I’m sure his time below has taught him everything he needed to learn.”

On his way to the dungeon, Albrecht remembered that Hans would need food and drink before he could work. So Albrecht set a kitchen maid to work on a tray.

The kitchen angered him. It reminded him that Greta had left him. After all he’d done for her these past three years. After the visits and the compliments he’d paid her about her golden hair and lily-white skin. He’d saved her from a life of coarseness and roughness. Singled her out. He’d even planned to bed her when the time was right. And she’d left. She’d left him. She’d rejected his favor. She’d rejected … him.

It hurt worse than the loss of his finger, not that he would ever say it aloud. It had not occurred to him, though, that a woman could wound him without a weapon—simply by withholding her affection. What dangerous creatures they were, and the more beautiful, the more lethal. Greta was, in this way, the greatest menace of the kingdom. She would have to be brought to heel.

“Are you all right, Your Majesty? You look unwell, and your hand …” The kitchen girl stood in front of him, the tray laden with food and a jug of ale.

He glanced at his not-finger. Yes, it bled. But he was fine, and she was impertinent even to ask. He took the tray from her and ventured to the dungeon.

It had been clever of his grandfather to build a new castle atop the old. It meant the new castle was higher, and higher was better.

It also left solid rooms to hold prisoners. The old doors and windows had been filled in with stone. Escape was not possible. Rumor had it one person had made it out over the years, but that was before Albrecht’s time and could very well have been nothing but a story the gullible chose to believe.

When he reached the bottom of the staircase, the light was weak, but there was enough to make out debris at the base of the door to the room where he’d locked Hans. Bits of wood.

No.

He rushed forward. The door had been ravaged. Hans was gone.

Albrecht threw the tray against the wall, bumping his hurt finger in the process. But he had mastered his rage before he’d reached the top of the stairs.He knew, of course, where Hans had gone. The same place Greta had gone. He’d need Jutta’s help, but he could catch them both. In the meantime, he had a kingdom to run.