"My skull isn't that odd," she answers, maybe a little sullen. They'd probably want my blood. And that thought brings along a darker one, something she's tried not to think about ever since the prison fell: whether getting cut across the neck is close enough to the brain stem to do any good. She's pretty sure it isn't, but the thought of her father's head lingering in some kind of undeath in a bloodied field is too much to bear.

Arguing about democracy doesn't really matter right now. They're in the middle of nowhere, and if they're going to live, they have to have some kind of leader. Fine. Whatever. Spending a whole month here, never thinking about what happens if I die in someone else's war for more than a moment--that actually matters. And with serious, steely Rani captured, she's not sure who she can actually trust. Sonia's so cheerful that it's hard to think of asking her about death; the countess is a remote ally at best. Somehow, Byerly has become one of her better options for help if the worst happens.

She's silent, expression grave, with something of a measuring look. It's not the right place to ask this, and just because he's her best option doesn't mean he's a great one--but people have been killed and captured. She can't just let something happen. "Byerly? If I asked you to do something..."