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The others mumbled agreement. But no one volunteered to be Lyrena’s first victim.
Of course, my Goldstone already had a target in mind. “Cyara—you answer about Veyka.”
“Too easy, she’s her handmaiden!” Osheen protested—too loudly for a male who’d contested whether we should even keep score.
“I will make it challenging,” Lyrena promised, mischievous grin already plastered across her face.
Cyara’s wings contracted slightly, though her turquoise eyes remained impassive.
“What is Veyka’s favorite color?”
“You said it would be challenging! One look at her and you know it is bl—”
“Dusky purple,” Cyara said smoothly. Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker in my direction. “Next?”
“Who is the only one of her Goldstones to ever best her in the sparring ring?”
“Guinevere.”
“What creature is she most afraid of?”
Cyara at least had the decency to send an apologetic look my way. “Mice.”
“Mice?” The group chorused.
“They are filthy and sneaky and too small to hit with a knife!” I shivered, remembering the time I’d tried—and taken out a chunk of the wall in my bedroom instead.
Maisri clapped in delight. “Let me guess Osheen’s answers next!”
We played several rounds, with several delightfully embarrassing revelations.
Osheen’s shaving routine? Twelve steps—Maisri recited each of them.
Lyrena’s childhood fear? The sound of someone taking a bite of an apple—no one had a chance of guessing that.
“Lyrena,” I paused, cocking my head to the side. “What is your surname?” All these random questions made me realize—I’d never heard it.
She effected a mock bow, golden hair glinting. “Lyrena Lancelot,” she grinned.
When she straightened, she turned her eyes to Osheen not a second, but a third time.
“Do Arran!” Osheen bellowed.
I pulled a knife from the scabbard, jogging ahead. There was a rise with long grasses—the perfect place to rustle up a fat bird for dinner.
Lyrena’s voice floated up the hill after me. “You and Veyka are the only ones with a chance…”
“Don’t I get to play?”
They all went silent. I jerked to a stop, turning back to see Percival’s smirking face.
He had no weapons. The knife and bow he’d carried were now distributed between Osheen and Arran. His hands were bound, even as we walked. There was no illusion that any of us trusted him. Or even liked him.
Let alone wanted to play a game.
But Arran’s eyes had gone fully black—the promise of death and brutality that fae and human alike across the realms had learned to fear. “Try me.”
Osheen and Lyrena exchanged a glance. Cyara was more discreet, but I saw her carefully appraising Percival. She’d been the one to brush and plait his long, dark hair for him that morning. Not a kindness, I knew, but a way to get him to ease his guard.
