Page 124 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar took them, studying the cloudy liquid within. “Thank you.”

When the door of his bunk closed behind him, Roremar sagged against it. The room was full of snoring and deep, steady breaths, thank the Fates. He didn’t have the energy to make up answers to any questions Perry might ask or verbally spar with Svalla.

He tip-toed toward his bed, mind swirling with names of poisons and their antidotes. He hoped the task tomorrow would involve some kind of logic piece to prove their cunning. He’d always been good at those.

Roremar dropped onto his thin mattress, the frame creaking, and leaned his elbows against his knees, unlacing his boots with shaky fingers. Exhaustion tugged at his muscles, whatever had been on that blade last night still making every move sluggish and the right side of his body heavier than the rest. The wound, though sewn up expertly, had its own heartbeat thumping away against his ribs, but Cyren had assured him it wasn’t infected.

He rubbed his eyes, the metal of his rings icy thanks to the slow walk from the Chancellor’s manor.

A small part of him was grateful to be back in this overcrowded room. Emmeline had been driving him mad all day, barely looking at him unless he specifically asked for her attention. Though they’d spent the entire day locked in her suite, she was actively pulling away. Did she regret what they’d done in the seeing chamber? Or had the whole night reminded her how quickly he would ruin her?

The urge for her that constantly lived in his chest strained at the thought.

Sighing, he shoved the extra vials from Cyren beneath his mattress with the incense he’d taken and the notes from Desmond. As he realigned the mattress back on the chipped wooden frame, he froze.

A small roll of paper was wedged into the corner.

He pulled it out, half expecting it to be an old incense roll from a soldier stationed here years ago, musty with age. But it wasn’t weathered or worn at all.

A fresh bead of wax sealed the note. Ice dripped down Roremar’s spine.

Checking that all five of his bunkmates were still breathing evenly in their sleep, Roremar crept toward the window, his wrung-out nerves on alert. The tiles were cold beneath his feet, his breathing ragged as he carefully pulled open the note.

There were only four words. Four words, written in thick red letters, that could mean a myriad of things, none of them fucking good.

HE WILL HAVE HER.

Rubbing his hand over his jaw, Roremar studied the handwriting, the way the final R stretched low and sweeping, like a careless, flourishing hand had scrawled it. The way the top of the Es were slightly pointed and the red liquid seeped into the fibers of the paper, droplets pointing toward the careless observation.

Or angry.

Someone claiming they would be the one to win Emmeline in this tournament. Maybe whoever had him stabbed last night wasn’t done taunting him.

Exhausted, Roremar crossed back to his bed and folded up the threat, stuffing it with his scant possessions beneath the mattress. He leaned back against the worn pillow, careful not to put pressure on his throbbing wound.

His mind bounced between every possibility, eyes landing on each man in the room and picking through everything he’d observed this past week. Had Svalla written that note, too, not content with shredding his tunics? Was it another threat, telling Roremar to get out of the tournament?

Or worse—was it one of the men who claimed to be an ally? Rian, Perry, or Khasson?

Which of these strangers could Roremar actually trust?

Which one wanted Emmeline the most?

By the time Roremar reported for the trial the next afternoon, his feet were dragging, and the right side of his body was still reacting slowly.

He’d barely slept, his mind racing through types of poison and antidotes, mysterious attackers and bloodied notes. Suffice it to say, he hadn’t gotten the rest Cyren had recommended to hurry along his recovery, and every stretch to get dressed and rush to the arena radiated through his wound.

Like the murder investigation, he could tell all the threads of whatever was going on in this damn city were connected. It was a feeling in his gut, something practiced for years as he worked reconnaissance in the army. The details assembled themselves in his brain, all slightly in the wrong direction but with similar colors and patterns.

He had to figure out their shape.

Falliare, Emmeline, Dryvius⁠—

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Roremar choked back a grunt as the wound on his side pulsed.

“Okay?” Rian asked, eyes narrowed.

Teeth gritted, Roremar nodded. Sweat broke out across his brow.