Page 97

“Yes, Master Dimos,” I mutter.

He turns and strides ahead without waiting, assuming—as men like him always do—that I’ll fall in step. And I do. My feet move almost on their own, each step testing the strength of my resolve.

The palace, even at night, seems too watchful. The sconces glow, their flickering flames casting long and ominous shadows across the walls. I’m not certain if it’s always felt this way, or if my growing paranoia is at fault.

We pass through the door of the royal gallery, and my feet stumble as I almost crash into someone. Hands shoot out to balance me, and my eyes snap up to meet a rich brown gaze.

Maxim.

He shifts slightly, eyes widening imperceptibly as they flick toward Dimos. But Maxim schools his features just as quickly, letting his hands fall from my shoulders.

His lips part, but before he can speak, Dimos clears his throat with purpose, and Maxim steps aside. His eyes, however, stay fixed on me, and they seem to say what he can’t speak aloud.

Don’t be foolish.

I dip my chin in the slightest acknowledgment and keep walking.

By the time we stop in front of the king’s study, my heart pounds in my chest. Dimos knocks once, the sound abrupt in the still antechamber, then pushes the heavy door open. He gestures for me to enter but lingers outside, pulling the door shut and scuttling away the instant I step through.

The king is seated at his desk, his quill dragging across parchment with deliberate, lazy strokes. His head is bent, angled toward the letter, the golden light from the nearby candles catching his profile. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge me. His pen scratches steadily at the parchment.

I step farther into the room, stopping a safe distance away from the desk, and fold my hands neatly in front of me, my gaze dropping to the rug.

Efficient, silent, unseen.

All the while, anxiety rises within me. Could this be it? The moment when everything collapses, crumbling to pieces around me? But Malis isn’t here, so perhaps I haven’t been discovered after all. At least, not yet.

I almost consider glancing at the letter, tempted to catch even a hint of its contents. But I resist, keeping my gaze locked on the intricate patterns woven into the rug beneath me.

The king is making me wait, drawing this out as a subtle show of power.

I can’t afford to falter under the pressure.

The scratch of the quill stops, then the chair groans softly, as if he’s leaning back. I can’t see it—I keep my eyes fixed on the rug—but I can sense his gaze. I compel myself to remain still, my posture deliberately composed.

“Do you know how difficult it is to be king?” His voice pierces the silence.

I remain silent. The question was never meant to be answered.

I peer up from beneath my lashes, watching as he leans forward slightly, his finger tracing the edge of his desk. “Every decision carries weight. Every choice, a sacrifice. Someone always has to pay the cost.”

A bitter taste rises from the back of my throat. It could be bile, but it also has the taste of hatred. Regardless of which it is, I swallow it down. He speaks as though he’s some tragic figure, a martyr weighed down by the burden of his crown. His difficulty doesn’t interest me. Not when I’ve seen the aftermath of his power firsthand. Not after what he did to Aella. Bent her. Broke her. Tried to erase her.

Slowly, the king reclines again, his hands steepled in front of him. He studies me with an unsettling detachment.

“Prince Kallias has been…restless of late. You have noticed, have you not?”

My heart stumbles in my chest, but I give nothing away. My lips part on a refusal, but the king continues speaking before I have the chance.

“He broods. Dismisses his guards. Slips off at odd hours.” His tone darkens. “And the servants? Well, there are rumors. Some say he has taken a rather peculiar interest in one among them. One intoxicated encounter I could ignore, but it seems this is something else entirely.”

The room seems to shrink as the meaning of his words dawns on me. Despite him seeing Kallias and me in the royal gallery, I hadn’t thought he had seen me. Not my face, at least.

“It never ends well, you know,” he muses. “These…attachments. Servants forgetting their place. Pretending, even for a moment, that they are more than dust beneath royal heels. I have plans for Kallias. Important plans that serve purposes far greater than the whims of attachment or fleeting sentiment.”

My hands tighten, nails pressing into my palms. I fight to keep my composure, refusing to show how deeply his words unsettle me.

“The palace,” he says, “is full of eyes. And I would hate to see a loyal girl…misunderstood.”