I spun away, anger clawing at me. Every touch with Kallias was a spark, a warmth that spread through my chest—the first rays of sunlight after a storm. With him, there was always certainty. Safety.
“He scolded me—”
Scythe winced, her breath catching as she rushed over to pull the pins from my hair.
“—like a child.”
That was the worst part. We built something solid between us—an understanding, a friendship, as much as a man and a woman could have while being promised to his son. And yet, he rebuked me as though I were a toddler who reached for the cookie jar without permission.
He could go nurse his wounds and bear his burdens alone, if that’s how he would treat me. I was just trying to be polite, a friend.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean–”
“He’s the king, Scythe. He means everything he says.”
Curse Elohios and the honesty he demanded. Kallias was nothing if not truthful. If he did not want me touching him, that was fine. I wouldn’t.
And I would not let him touch me.
The next days dragged, a sickening blur of both haste and stagnation. Days rushed by as preparations for the ball consumed everyone. The Velli’s arrival loomed, and Fyrn was immersed in the planning, her time spent almost entirely with the prince. The way she fit in with him gnawed at me. I tried to join them once, but it was clear that Tallon wanted nothing from me. I’d pulled each trick I knew to gain his respect, yet still, he brushed me aside.
The evenings were worse.
Kallias avoided my gaze, though I could feel the weight of his stare whenever I retired. I knew he watched. So, I sauntered, chin lifted, a princess in every step. Let him watch me walk away, knowing I wouldn’t be joining him on his roof. Knowing that he should have taken more care with his words.
No. Kallias was always careful. Each word measured with purpose. I set my book aside and settled into the chaise, mind racing. That night, he’d been weighed down, burdened by more than just the crown. The pressure of it all made him snap—but still, he never lied.
When he told me not to touch him, was it for my sake, or his? His gaze lingered, sharp with something I couldn’t quite place. Scythe said he looked like a man starved the day I raced in Reem. She wouldn’t tease me if she didn’t believe Kallias had feelings.
Did he forbid my touch to protect me from other men, or to keep me away from him? I studied my palm, fingers tracing the lines. Had it calmed him, soothed him? Or had it stirred something dangerous beneath the surface?
“I know some witches who could read those,” Scythe offered, smirking over her book.
“What?”
She grinned. “The lines—on your hand.”
“Witchcraft is frowned upon,” Edith hissed, pausing in her mending. A cloak—mysteriously torn—lay in her lap.
My eyes rolled, and I was about to speak when a knock interrupted.
“Your dress!” Scythe chirped. She bounced up, jostling me, causing my book to hit the floor. “It’s going to be beautiful!”
I stooped over to retrieve it while Edith went to answer. She took the package from the messenger, closing the door with a harsh frown. She faced us, brow furrowed as I dangled off the chaise, grinning up at her, then placed it on the table, eyeing it as if it might bite.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s awfully small.”
Scythe crawled over me, shoving me to the floor, eyes wide with excitement. “You haven’t even opened it!”
“It’smydress!” I laughed, picking myself up off the carpet.
Tallon chose it himself, and on the heels of being shunned by his father, I was eager to garner some bridge between us. If wearing his selection accomplished that, I’d do it. A chime echoed in the distance—we didn’t have much time to prepare.
Scythe tore into the box, then froze. “Where’s the rest of it?”
All color drained from her face, her usual energy muted. Edith stiffened, her expression sharpening into a cold mask of fury. My chest tightened. I set my book aside, glancing between them. Dread coiled in my stomach as I approached the table.
