“Perhaps, My Queen,” said Lindwurm.
Levana spun toward him. “What do you mean, perhaps? They are my soldiers. They cannot revolt against me.”
Lindwurm lowered his gaze. “Our security team received notice two hours ago that Princess Winter’s identity had been tracked to the outside of those barracks.”
Levana’s smile vanished. “Winter?” She glanced at Aimery, who straightened, his own interest piqued. “So she is alive. But what would she be doing there?”
“The system picked up on her fingerprints being used to enter the barracks. After learning of the security breach, the eight remaining thaumaturges for Regiment 117 were sent to ascertain if the princess was posing a threat.”
“I suppose it is too much to hope that they found the dear girl ripped to bloody shreds.”
That’s what they should have found. The beasts should have killed Winter without hesitation—it was what they were designed to do. But she suspected that was not the case.
“From what we can ascertain,” said Lindwurm, “when the thaumaturges arrived, the soldiers turned on them and attacked. All eight are dead.”
Her blood ran hot, pounding at her temples. “And Winter?”
“The princess and the soldiers have abandoned the barracks. Security feeds showed them entering the nearest surface sector—LW-12. It is one of the sectors in upheaval, but we have not been considering them a high-priority threat.”
“You’re telling me that my soldiers have sided with the girl?”
Lindwurm dipped his head.
The servant returned carrying a silver tray with a decanter and crystal glass. Levana could hear the decanter trembling against the glass’s lip as her wine was poured. Levana barely felt the weight of the glass in her hand as she took it.
“Leave,” she ordered, and the servant couldn’t scramble away fast enough.
She glided back to the window. Her city. Her moon. The planet that she would someday rule hanging off the horizon, nearly full.
When she had given Jacin Clay the opportunity to earn back her favor by killing the princess, she had expected him to try something stupid, but she’d hoped he would realize how futile it was. She’d hoped he would choose to hasten Winter’s death as painlessly as possible rather than risk a much more brutal sentencing. That was mercy, after all. Mercy.
But he’d failed. Winter was still alive and she was trying to take Levana’s army away from her, just as she’d taken the people’s adoration, just as Selene was ruining everything.
She tried to picture the scene. Docile, half-crazy Winter, batting her lashes at the brutal beasts, and them falling for it. Oh, how they would fawn over her. How they would fall to their knees and beg to do her bidding. How they would follow their beloved princess anywhere.
“My Queen,” said Aimery, placing a fist against his chest, “I feel responsible that we failed to find the princess during our raid on RM-9. Please allow me this chance to atone for the error. I will go to this sector and see that the princess is dealt with. I will not fail again.”
She turned to face him. “You intend to kill her, Aimery?”
A pause—a slight one, but there all the same. “Of course, My Queen.”
Laughing, Levana took a draft of the wine. “It was not long ago when you asked to marry her. Do you think she is beautiful?”
He chuckled. “My Queen. Everyone thinks the princess is beautiful, but she is no match for Your Majesty. You are perfection.”
“I have begun to wonder if perfection might be its own flaw.” She smirked. “Though perhaps a flaw can contribute to perfection.” She pinned Aimery beneath her glare and adjusted her glamour, drawing three sharp, bloodied scratches down her right cheek.
He gulped.
“I’ve known you for many years, Aimery. I know how you like them broken. You would have made a good match after all … you are as pathetic as she is.” She hurled the goblet. Aimery ducked, blocking the glass with his forearm. It crashed to the floor, the wine spilling like a mix of water and blood, splattering on Levana’s shoes. “You will have your chance to prove yourself, but not where Winter is concerned. It seems no one has the stomach to do what must be done—not you, not Jacin Clay, not even my beloved pets. I am sick to death of disappointment.”
She turned her back. Her thoughts reeled with betrayal, disgust, and jealousy—yes, even jealousy. All over that insignificant child. The weak, fragile thing.