Hyperia sat as an empress should, with her back straight and a room of supplicant men fanned out around her. Lord Tiber, looking particularly mangy with his unkempt gray hair and bloodshot eyes, leered at her from his chair. His sons, Lysander and Demetrius, flanked him, looking vacant. Perhaps, rat though he was, Ajax had been the superior choice.

She didn’t know where the little bastard had got to and didn’t care.

Her father sat beside Tiber, giving the appearance of doing as little as possible.

“I’ll cut to the point.” Hyperia smoothed her skirts. “Withdraw your support from Ajax and give it to me.”

Tiber puckered his lips. They were uncomfortably moist. “That’s not especially convincing,” he said. His two sons snickered.

“I triumphed in the first challenge, and I’ve started the second with two Houses backing me. Join now, and you’ll have a friend on the dragon throne.”

“You know, the last emperor was my older brother.” Tiber grinned; his teeth were edged in gray. “Didn’t give me any extra money or land or power, but I did get a new she-goat at every midwinter festival.” Tiber sniffed, blew his nose in a handkerchief. He licked his lips with a swollen-looking tongue. “So, how are you going to sweeten my pot?”

Hyperia did not like the way he stared, nor the way his two idiot sons continued to snicker. But her father’s eyes flashed a warning. Pursing her lips, she thought.

“More imperial troops will be sent to the northeast territories, to aid you in the fight for expansion. Once you take those lands, you’ll be warden and their resources will be yours—”

“Nope.” Tiber grinned. “Same old routine. My people fight those Wikingar dogs morning to night, long winter to long winter, but the fight never stops. More troops won’t solve it. We don’t have the Aurun ships or the Sabel trade or the Volscia fields or the Pentri population. We got mountains and snow and tired-looking women.” Tiber’s tongue peeked out from between his teeth. “My son was just telling me how sweet the Ardennes girls look. I’m inclined to agree. But you.” He oozed to the edge of his chair. “You are by far the sweetest thing I’ve seen in some time. Huh, boys?” He waggled his eyebrows at his sons. “Nice, fresh little peach.”

Hyperia’s entire world seemed to drop away. She felt…exposed…lessened beneath this awful man’s gaze. Drawing herself up, noticing her father’s frantic eye movements all but ordering her to remain calm, Hyperia struggled with words.

“What. Are you. Suggesting?” she said through her teeth.

“Well.” Tiber patted his knee, summoning her to perch. “I give a little, you give a little.”

Lord Volscia became interested in the carpet’s weave.

It would have been wise to, if not give in to his horrible idea, at least gently rebuff it. But all of Hyperia’s blood revolted at this unwashed creature with his lewd, disgusting…

She shot to her feet in golden fury.

“A dragon does not give itself to a pig!”

Tiber’s lip curled, baring his gray teeth. She wanted to cut him from ear to ear in a wide, bloody grin. Lord Volscia, meanwhile, cleared his throat and leaned closer to Tiber. He had seen this cancerous toad proposition her, and his inclination was to…to soothe him. Hyperia felt as if every inch of her were rotting away.

“So I’m a pig, am I?” the old man grunted.

“Perhaps the women of the Ardennes region might tempt you in my daughter’s place?” her father said, all but falling to his knees with pleading. “How many would serve, do you think?”

“Father.” Hyperia felt the blood leave her face. The women of her region, paid like a sack of potatoes to this…

“Mmm. They are the prettiest.”

“I told you, Father,” Lysander said, eyeing Hyperia as though she were hysterical. “They’re quite…luscious.”

Like fruit to be savored with one awful bite.

“All right, missy.” Missy. His watery eyes tracked her form. “You’re a sweet, tight little piece I’m sorry to be missing out on, but if you’re willing to part with, say, twenty-five noble little ladies—you can throw some peasants in there, I’m not particular—I think we can come to an arrangement right here.” The wet curl of his lips…the bleary shine of his eyes…the bobbing, excitable little monsters crouched behind him, probably waiting their turn at his leftovers…

Hyperia smiled. The men relaxed. At last, she was behaving like a good girl.

“My lord Tiber.” She took his veiny, rough hand in hers and patted it. Then, she dug her fingernails into his palm. The man lurched forward, but couldn’t extricate himself from her grip. She’d spent her childhood grappling, handling spears and the hilts of swords, climbing rung over rung to reach far-off pinnacles. Her hands were strong. This man had weakened himself on honor’s dregs. “When I become empress, I will have my imperial guard sent to Wroclawia. When they arrive at your palace they will strip you naked, bind your hands, and force you to parade through the streets.”

“Hey!” Lysander shouted. She gave one searing look, and he fell silent. So did Demetrius. Her father fumbled with apologies while she continued.

“I will have you walk until you finally reach Dragonspire. It’s a distance of—what?—a thousand miles? More?” Her fingernails drew blood. “I’ll have them take the side roads.”

“You—”

She grabbed his jaw and squeezed. His lips puckered, his veiny eyes bulged. He would never have anticipated this, because he was a fool. He did not know that a girl’s anger was her greatest weapon when handled with authority. Hyperia continued.

“Once you have knelt before me and apologized, you will walk bloody-footed and naked into the Ardennes region, where I will line up every single woman and girl, from courtier to peasant. I’ll have them walk through mud and rain and pig shit, so that all of the hems of their garments are sodden with filth, all so that you can get onto your worthless knees and kiss the hem of every. Single. One.” She brought her nose to Tiber’s; in his eyes, she saw the panic of a sow at slaughter. “And with every kiss, you will beg their forgiveness for entertaining the thought that a disease such as yourself could be worthy of touching them upon the shoulder, let alone…” She did not voice the unsavory thought. Sneering, she shoved Tiber backward. His chair nearly tipped over, and his sons scrambled to right him. Her father was on his feet now, but she paid him no mind. “So take that filthy slug between your legs and your ill-gotten spawn, and if you approach me again, by the blue above I will gut you.” Her fists tightened by her side. “Do you understand, my lord?”

“Y-you…you can’t,” Demetrius choked.

Hyperia drew her sword in one seamless movement. The young men cowered behind their father’s seat.

“I will have your balls on my mantel if you speak again,” she said. Sheathing her weapon, Hyperia turned and strode out the door without a backward glance. Her blood thundered as she headed toward the bright cacophony of the ball.

She would find some other way. All she needed was Aurun or Sabel, and if she explained her right to victory—

“What have you done?” Her father grabbed her from behind, his eyes frenzied. “One word. We’d have taken the second challenge with one word, Hyperia.”

“That man is trash whose mere presence degrades the dragon throne.”

“If he goes, he can take Pentri with him, you fool!”

Fool. Hyperia flinched as memories flooded her, slaps, curses, cuffings, beatings with a silk cord so that her flesh should not be marred, because an empress must be pretty as well as strong—

“Do not speak so to me,” she growled. She shook his hand from her shoulder.

“Tiber has the Pentri in his grasp. You must return and beg his forgiveness.”

“I will never beg that bastard for anything.” She narrowed her eyes. “When I am empress—”

“You won’t be empress without me, you imbecile!” Spittle flew from his lips. Hyperia grew still as her father wiped a hand down his face. “Now more than ever, I regret your sister’s death. He might have taken her for one quick spin and saved us all this trouble—”

Bam. Hyperia threw her father against the wall, her forearm pinning his neck. She pushed, choking him. His eyes widened as she stuck a knee between his legs, mashing his balls as well. Trembling, she bared her teeth in his face.

Julia. Julia, my beauty, my baby, my innocent.

At least I saved you from him.

“When I am on the dragon throne,” she said, her voice as smooth as smoke, “I will have your head.”

She left him choking in the hall. Hyperia did not listen to the sounds of the party. She took the main staircase to the second floor, and padded down to her sister’s old chamber. Her mind dull, her hands shaking, she regained herself while standing in the center of Julia’s bedroom, the gold-quilted bed immaculately made, the papers spilled across Julia’s desk as colorful and untidy as she had been. Hyperia choked on a smile as she leafed through her sister’s sketches and water paints. Pictures of Gus, Julia’s tabby cat, of a sunrise on the vineyards, of Minerva while she slept…

Of Hyperia. The drawing was incomplete, the lines articulating her features blurred and half-erased. Julia might have been painting it as a remembrance, for when Hyperia became empress…

She stifled a sob and knelt on the floor, breathing fire from her lungs. Vision doubling, she recalled being eleven and perched at the edge of a gilded dining-room chair. Sitting before her father, her shoulders could never slope. A bone-china plate bearing the Volscia seal held a slice of yellow cake topped with cream. Hyperia had rarely been allowed sweets. Her father told her to eat. An order.

The cake tasted of lemon and butter…and of something dank with mold. When she tried to spit it out, he slapped her, blood mingling with pastry. She ate the entire thing, and then vomited in the lap of her pale yellow gown. Whimpering, she begged to leave the table. No. She must adapt herself to different poisons. An empress lived under constant threat. Even when she voided blood, her father wouldn’t let her leave. Her shoulders must never slope.

Hyperia had sat down to the same dessert over and over, stuffed with different fungi and poison. She’d done so until her body was immune to all strains of death, and she hated sweet things.

Hyperia neatened the paintings on Julia’s desk and tore up her own unfinished image.