"Have you found him?" Bram asks, breath fogging the hall.
Rhys does not turn. "Not yet."
Francisco Bowers clears his throat and folds his hands. "Your Majesty, the border reports hold. Lianor will accept our terms if we proceed with a formal marriage alliance."
Bram's hand tightens on the hilt at his side. "A marriage won't seal a broken trust. Lianor has other cards."
"Name them," Rhys says.
"Assassins hidden in dowries. Poison in gifts. A bride who is a blade." Bram's voice is low enough that the eunuchs do not flinch, but the word lands in the hall.
"Poison is an old language," Francisco says smoothly. "We have chemistry tests. We have quarantine. A bride is safer than a long campaign across winter roads."
"Safer for whom?" Bram asks. "For them, maybe."
There is a ripple of court laughter that Rhys does not join. He watches the stained-glass windows where winter light slashes red across the marble floor.
"Juniper Ishikawa," Francisco says. "Princess of the fallen Lianor. She is nineteen, blond, bookish. She arrives as a hostage-bride under the treaty."
A murmur moves like a thing over the seated ministers. Someone mutters that a hostage-bride will remind old enemies that the Empire is magnanimous. Someone else begins to outline dowry figures.
Bram cuts in. "I know Juniper's name from the lists. Lianor trained a cadre of covert operatives after the coup. They sent women to serve as servants in foreign houses. They
