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As she rolled her eyes and turned away, I couldn't help but wonder if there had been any genuine connection between Isaac and the girl who so desperately sought his attention. Or perhaps, like me, she was simply playing her part in a game none of us truly understood.
Everything was strategy, moves and countermoves.
Steeling myself, I took a deep breath and entered the waiting room just before the spot where the interviews with Canciller Duarte had been taking place all week. The grandiosity of the room was overwhelming, with floor-to-ceiling windows casting the last few golden rays of the day onto the polished marble floors. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries that told stories of long-forgotten battles and mythical creatures.
The wyvern was present.
A part of me wondered how I could’ve been so blind to noticing the creature before. No one spoke of wyverns in the commonwealth, and I wondered why it was so prevalent.
I kept my eyes locked outside, grateful for the open windows while I reminded myself over and over I wasn’t a caged animal. Everyone would have their turn in the interview room, and mine was nearing with every second.
My heart pounded in my chest, and my palms were slick with sweat. The interview was mostly promotional material. They could cut out what they didn’t like, or manipulate my words to say whatever they wanted. The real danger came from this being the first time I would see or speak to the Canciller since the Candidates Ball.
It was impossible that he didn’t know exactly who I was, just like it was impossible that he didn’t know I’d killed Martina de León.
The concept of meeting him for an amicable recorded interview instead of a tribunal made no sense. He had ended the monarchy, took relatively seamless control of our people, kept us neatly tucked away from the rest of the world, and charmed the commonwealth with his gentle smile and kindly weathered face.
If I had grown up as an Élite, I might’ve thought that he was harmless, but I was raised in the lower classes, and the obvious lack of care for the conditions of Trabajadores, Artistas, and Dregs trumped the charisma. Actions were the only thing that could convince me of a person’s goodness, and he was the same man who gave out the pastillas negras to slowly numb his citizens instead of curing them from the Withering.
Finally, a small woman popped out. It was my turn. I entered the room and found Canciller Duarte sitting in an ornate chair. There was another seat directly across from him, and a gleaming marble table with books stacked atop positioned in between both spaces. He looked up at me across the room with a smile, but the glint in his eyes made me uneasy.
The windows were completely blacked out by long, thick curtains behind him, and my stomach clenched. This was not the place where Omar Gálvez kept me locked up, and it definitely was not the place to have a panic attack. They were only curtains.
With shaky palms, I approached the Canciller. I turned my gaze away from ostentatious curtains to the enormous camera and lights organized carefully in front of the small set. The equipment was impressive. Several Artistas bustled around, murmuring as they changed batteries and film. A few looked up at me with that same reverence and awe I was growing used to. One of them smiled, and I weakly returned the gesture.
"Ah, Renata," Canciller Duarte greeted me, wearing a warm smile that seemed to be painted on his face. I could tell it was for show—there was a cold, calculating glint lurking behind his eyes, making me uneasy. He was menacing, and I couldn't shake the memory of our encounter in the Old Palace hallway.
After being ushered forward by a Trabajador, I stepped into the lights.
"Canciller," I said, forcing a polite smile and offering a curtsy.
He stood up, an uncomfortably gentlemanly action, and said, "Please, sit." He gestured towards an opulent chair across from him. As I took my seat, I could feel the weight of the gold dress clinging to me, anchoring me to the ground, as my heart threatened to beat right out of my chest like a comet soaring through the atmosphere. The sleeves had always been long, but the neckline had to be adjusted so that it reached my throat.
I tugged on the hem of my sleeve, trying not to think about the ugly scars which covered so much of my upper body.
"Thank you," I replied, trying to sound gracious despite my nerves. The room seemed to shrink as we sat down, the extravagant gold and velvet furnishings swallowing us whole.
Then, behind the large white umbrellas used to diffuse light, I noticed a small circle of Guardias and tried to peek through their ranks.
I held back my reaction when I caught sight of a seated woman. Was she his prisoner?
“Don’t feel nervous. The cameras haven’t started yet.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile, which I didn’t return.
We sat there in an uneasy silence for several moments, with only the sound of papers shifting somewhere behind me. I looked long and hard at the ruler of Arrebol as if I could read the story of his past through the lines on his face. I realized how little I knew about him. His only daughter had come later in his life. Why had he brought a woman to sit behind him like a paper doll?
I paused. Was that his wife?
My cheeks heated when he looked up at me with piercing, faded brown eyes and caught me staring. Ana would’ve told me it was rude to stare. A part of me was afraid of the intensity of his gaze, but I held eye contact.
My chest rose and fell. Someone murmured behind me.
I did not budge. He held my life in his hands. Either he would find some way for me to get killed or he would not.
Dying in the next few weeks had been a reality since my name was first called out over the scratchy speakers of the television in Maestra Cecelia’s Theater. He couldn’t make me fear for my life when I had spent so long being afraid.
I was covered in scars both visible and not, but I only feared a long life in perpetual torment, not death.
“Canciller Duarte, Señorita Valarde, we are ready to begin. Is that all right?” an Artista asked gently.
