? PROLOGUE ?

  ?? The Beginning ??

  The labs of the Genetic Engineering Program—or the GEP, as the techs called it with a sort of dark humor—smelled of antiseptic and broken promises.

  Dr. Warner Tate hunched over his microscope, the lines around his mouth deepening as he examined another failed batch. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. God, he hated that sound. Made his molars ache. "Twenty-four embryos," he muttered, "and only two female." He tossed his pencil across the lab table where it skittered and fell to the floor. Nobody moved to pick it up. This was the new normal. For what, almost twenty years now? Twenty-three? The timeline got fuzzy sometimes. Natural conception had vanished like those Red Pandas his daughter used to cry about. First, it was rare, then impossible, then mythical—something our ancestors did, like churning butter or dying of smallpox. The world's answer was this: Men in labs playing God, crafting babies in petri dishes. The GEP gave life, sure. But three boys born for every girl means math doesn't add up, and never will. Now baby girls were better than gold, better than water in a drought. Royal bloodlines secured through arranged marriages, like it was in 1546 all over again. What was that saying about history? Doesn't repeat, but it sure as hell rhymes."Dr. Tate?" His assistant cleared her throat. "They're asking about the Strayerfield extraction again."Of course, they were. Strayerfield—the holdout, the anomaly. A child conceived the old way, the impossible way. A miracle or a mistake, depending on who you asked. And locked somewhere in that child's cells? Maybe salvation. Maybe nothing. Worth killing for either way.

  Nicolai Archibald's office looked like a particularly tidy bomb had gone off. Papers arranged in precise piles, books stacked at right angles, and coffee cups positioned exactly two inches from his laptop. His foster parents called it his "little fixations" when he was a kid. Before he had…left. He reviewed the mission parameters one final time. Too young for this responsibility, they whispered. But youth came with certain advantages. Like the ability to function on four hours of sleep and cold pizza. Besides, he was good. Damn good. That's why they'd chosen him. Tomorrow he'd head out with soldiers from Wintergate and Belraithe across borders that used to mean something different before the world went sideways. Their mission: extract biological samples from Strayerfield's military compound. Transport them safely. Don't ask questions. That last part bothered him the most. Something was missing from the brief. Something that made his neck prickle with unease. Nicolai rubbed his eyes, which felt like they'd been sandpapered. Should sleep. Couldn't sleep. His mind kept circling back to the same thought: if this mission succeeded, he could help restore natural conception. Fix the broken world. If. Big word for just two letters.

  Princess Daelyn of Wintergate hated her window seat some days. Hated how it made the outside world look like a painting, something to admire but never touch. The smudged fingerprints on the glass were hers; proof she'd tried to reach through anyway. Her eighteenth birthday had come with little fanfare. The true celebration—her coming-out party—had been postponed. "Political considerations," Lucas had explained, not quite meeting her eyes. Six more months of borrowed time.Six months before she'd be presented to a lineup of potential husbands from neighboring kingdoms. Six months before she became what every princess became; a treaty in flesh, a bridge between realms, a solution to the problem of bloodlines dying out. Her mother had called it "the highest purpose." Before the cancer took her, anyway. Daelyn touched the dried peony pressed between the pages of her journal. She'd stolen it from the royal gardens during a rare moment of freedom. An act of rebellion so small it was almost pathetic. Like a bird beating its wings against a cage. A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts. King Lucas of Wintergate; her brother, her protector, her jailer all in one, he didn't wait for permission to enter. His crown was absent, but the weight of it never left his shoulders."They're waiting in the council room," he said, voice clipped. "The briefing for the Strayerfield mission is about to begin."Daelyn nodded, straightening her spine until it ached. The mask of the perfect princess sliding into place as easily as breathing. She wondered, sometimes, if there was still a real girl beneath it.

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  The sweat stung Andrik's eyes as he circled his opponent. Again. Third time today. Kid just wouldn't stay down."Had enough yet?" Andrik asked, but Cadet Merrill just spat blood onto Belraithe Military Academy's training mat and grinned. Stubborn fool. Reminded Andrik of himself at fifteen. Merrill lunged—sloppy, telegraphed—and Andrik sidestepped, grabbed the arm, used the momentum. Crack. A muffled curse as shoulders met mat. A collective intake of breath from the watching cadets. Nobody cheered. Nobody dared. Prince or not, Andrik wasn't well-liked here. Respected, feared maybe, but not liked. Fine by him. Friendship was a luxury he couldn't afford anyway. His father had made that clear the time he'd caught Andrik teaching the stable boy to read. "Kings have subjects, not friends," he'd said, and that was the end of that. Someone cleared their throat nearby. Andrik looked up to see that pinched-face messenger his father always sent—what was his name? Hadley? Harlan? Started with an H."Your Highness," the man said, eyes carefully averted from the bloodied cadet being helped off the mat. "Your father requests your presence. It concerns the Strayerfield mission."Requests. Hah. Like King Konrad of Belraithe had ever requested anything in his life. Demanded, ordered, commanded—but never requested. Andrik grabbed a nearby towel, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Now?"The King said immediately, Your Highness."Of course, he did. Because the one afternoon Andrik had carved out for actual combat training—rather than the endless diplomatic posturing his father normally insisted on—was the perfect time to summon him."Tell him I'll be there in twenty minutes," Andrik said, knowing full well he was pushing boundaries. "I need to shower."The messenger's left eye twitched. Poor man. Caught between the King's command and the Prince's defiance."I'll... inform His Majesty you're on your way, sir."Andrik nodded, already moving toward the showers. Any mission involving Strayerfield meant three things: politics, alliances, and the inevitable, suffocating discussion of which princess he was expected to marry. Another royal chess piece to be moved across the board of international relations. Last time, it had been the younger princess from the Southern Isles. The meeting had ended with Andrik telling his father precisely where he could shove the alliance. He'd been confined to quarters for a week after that outburst. Worth it, though. The look on the old man's face had been priceless. As Andrik walked, he flexed his right hand, wincing at the deep ache in his knuckles. Should've wrapped them better. His father would notice—he always did—and there'd be some cutting remark about barbaric behavior unbecoming a future king. He wondered, briefly, which poor girl they'd be discussing today. Whichever princess it was, he already felt sorry for her.

  None of them knew—the doctor, the princess, the prince—how their paths would cross. How the mission would unravel. How failure would change everything. But then, history's greatest turning points always look different in hindsight.