Page 74 of The Faceless Queen

I wanted to join in on the excitement from the hundreds gathered to watch. But even as Brennan came forward, and his accolades were announced as he strung his bow, I couldn’t focus. Not when the archery competition ended and the axe throwing began, or when the final presentation started—a ring tilt—and the crowd, hours into their cups, had debauched into revelry and drunkenness.

Brennan charged down the lists, as crown prince, he was last to ride out. He was the only one to thread his lance through the smallest ring, the one made of gold. It slid down to the hilt, gleaming against my white ribbons.

He looked back at me, triumphant and proud.

But all I could see was Jaron still staring at me as he had done so through each event. All I could hear as the crowd roared for Brennan was Jaron’s voice in my mind, saying over and over again, “You remind me of someone.”

It shouldn’t have been possible for him to make the connection so easily. Azetes were the most rare amongst the witches, amongst the people Eskalon referred to as demonons. And Olivay had been at the castle for days already without suspicion.

Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe all the lies and deceit of acting like Olivay had caught up to me–was making me afraid. But my gut said otherwise. He had no proof–none that anyone would believe anyway.

But it didn’t matter. Jaron would find a way in the end to catch me, to put me in one of his boxes. It was only a matter of time. Because despite everything, I could feel it. He knew.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sometime before midnight, when small brawls had broken out across the tourney in the commoner’s sections, and sudden arrests were made for those pledging their loyalty to House Bathiner, instead of House Lafir, I was whisked from the pavilion, back to the castle, before being brought straight to my room where I was prepared for bed.

I was asleep instantly, Abigail barely blowing out the candles before my eyes shut. The effort of maintaining my shapeshift had been a constant drain on my power and energy. And when the day ended, I didn’t even have enough energy left to dream.

A brisk knock on my door forced me out of bed. I could have stayed there for hours, recouping my energy. It wasn’t just the shapeshift, but the constant awareness of my every word and my every move, whether or not one small mistake would give me away or confirm what Jaron already suspected.

That I was a fake. That I was Azete.

“Your Highness, Princess Olivay,” Abigail called out.

The door opened, and she stepped inside, followed by another servant carrying my breakfast tray. I noted the presence of several guards outside my door, each one covered in steel armor and cloaks pinned with the sigil of House Lafir.

Abigail shot out several orders to the servant concerning my breakfast before closing the door behind her. The guards remained still and stoic, but several sets of eyes passed over my room, gazing at me with intense scrutiny.

My throat went dry. “Something wrong?” I asked. There had not been such a presence at my door last night.

“No, nothing’s amiss, Your Highness,” Abigail said. “The events of today begin quite early. Several melees are scheduled just after breakfast. It was decided it would be easier for you to prepare to attend the games if your meal was to be served in your room.”

I frowned. She was lying. I could feel it. “And the guards waiting outside my room?” I asked. They weren’t here for my protection. I could feel that, too.

Already my heart thundered too loudly, and I began to contemplate my escape. They already knew what I was, so there was no point avoiding further exposure.

But as soon as I had the thought, my wrist burned.

“The guards are for the prince,” Abigail said. “They’re his.”

My stomach turned. “And he sent them to me?”

Abigail blinked, her expression one of confusion. “They always arrive before him.”

Not when he frequents taverns.

“He’s coming to see me?” I asked.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Abigail said. She spoke like this was natural, but I knew it wasn’t. We might have been betrothed, and we might have kissed, but I knew royalty in Eley were not exactly open to the bride and groom visiting each other’s rooms before the wedding.

“Here.” She opened my wardrobe and pulled out a blue satin dressing gown, helping me slide my arms inside.

There was a thud outside my door, like someone had stomped their foot. And then a loud male voice called out, “His Highness, Crown Prince Jaron Emmerson Rowan Brendathan.”

A herald.

I stared at Abigail, who only looked wide-eyed back at me.