Sipping my glass of water, I tried to stay hidden in the sparse shadows. Flames flickered in decadent lanterns, their light glinting off hanging crystals, scattering warm glimmers in every direction—making it infinitely harder for me to hide.
The dress was suffocating. I despised being here. People either bombarded me with questions or mocked my upbringing.
As if being murdered by my brother at the age of six would have been better than my life on the streets.
No one acknowledged that detail, though. I wasn’t sure if they were unaware of that night’s horrors or if they chose to forget, preferring to ridicule my High Wynterian accent.
When I asked the server for water instead of wine or ale, she gawked at me as if I’d grown two heads. She fetched it, but explaining my abstinence from alcohol seemed pointless. To her, I was a royal, and royals should glut themselves during feasts and drink like common drunkards.
My brother was across the grand room, engaged in conversation with two older men. A sea of mingling guests almost drowned out the small group performing in the corner.
Musicians.
I got corrected more than once—they were trained musicians, not simple tavern bards. I frowned, glancing at the quartet playing their stringed instruments in a slow, calm song. The bards I knew could create better entertainment with just their voices and a hand slapped on a table.
“Tiring of the festivities so soon?” A man approached, tall and handsome, with pale blond hair hanging past his shoulders. His eyes warmed, giving the illusion of old friendship.
Sainte stood behind me, watching him with careful scrutiny.
“I needed a drink,” I said with a casual shrug. “I’ve had more introductions tonight than I have my entire life.”
The man laughed, sipped his wine, and nodded to Sainte before stepping closer, blocking him from view.
I frowned.
“It is tedious,” he agreed. “Though many would give their firstborn to meet you.”
I arched my brow, unamused. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“But you, too, have a flair for the theatrical, do you not?” His eyes lingered on the fresh, rosy handprints on my face.
I sniffed, turning toward the crowd. “I don’t know what you mean.”
A chill ran through me as I noticed Adastrus staring, his expression blank. He ignored the younger noble speaking to him, focusing entirely on our exchange.
“Chosen of the Gods, the one to guide us to the old paths, the Favored Princess—that’s what the commoners are calling you.”
“And what would you call me?” I dared, watching him from the corner of my eye.
“Ah, Leihim Hinyte at your service,” he dropped into a deep bow, “Your Highness, My Lost Princess.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “I’m not lost anymore.”
“There are those who wish you were.” He straightened and sipped his wine, watching me over the rim. “Those who wish you were more than lost.”
“Careful,” Sainte warned, hand resting on his dagger.
“I mean no harm.” Leihim smirked, raising his palm in a show of submission. “I’m simply stating a fact you must already be aware of.”
“Well aware.”
He seemed friendly enough, his body language open and calm. He didn’t appear unnerved by my presence or words.
“I’ve watched you with Counselor Dyre,” he said, stepping closer. He scanned the crowd as he leaned in to whisper, “Cunning, that one.”
Something in my shoulders relaxed when Adastrus returned to his conversation, evidently dismissing any thoughts about me and Leihim.
“He’s proved to be a well of wisdom,” I said.
