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In my hazy half-sleep, something bangs. I snap awake, hand lurching at once to my side as I shoot upright. No weapons. I fling myself off the bed, bracing to use my magic instead, but once I’m on my feet, blinking in the bright light, it hits me.
I’m in the palace.
I let my hand sink back to my side.
The thumping sound comes again.
“Prince Kirran? Are you there?”
I lumber toward the door and yank it open as the person starts another round of knocking. “What?”
The dark-haired servant girl jumps back, her eyes widening as I lean against the doorframe. She can’t be but sixteen. In a flurry, she bows and knots her hands in her skirt. “Um, forgive me, Your Highness. His Majesty the king requests your presence at brunch. He told me to…” Her gaze flicks up and away. Now her hands wipe against her dress. “He told me to…retrieve you. Y-Your Highness.”
I press my fingers to my temple. Her stare follows the movement, then sweeps over me again. Her cheeks darken as she once more ducks her face toward the floor.
My hands. I’m not wearing the gloves.
A jolt ripples through me, and I yank my hand behind my back. Warm skin meets me.
That’s when I remember I’m also not wearing a shirt.
“Oh, I’m — sorry, miss.” I shift farther behind the door and clear my throat. “Now, what’s this about brunch?”
“The…the king requests your presence. In the small east dining room.”
I bite back a yawn and tilt my head against the carved wood. “When’s brunch?”
“Um, right now, Your Highness.”
The groan slips out before I can stop it. Of course he demands my presence immediately. “All right. Inform him that I’m on my way.” Without another word, I close the door and head toward my wardrobe. I grab fresh clothes and the gloves, clean up in the washroom, and head into the hall, adjusting my sword at my hip as I go.
Beyond the reception halls and the servants’ mess hall, we have four separate dining rooms. Two on the east side of the palace and two on the west. More often than not, we follow the sunlight and eat by either sunrise or sunset. While I understand the sunrise and sunset thing, the number of places to eat in this palace always felt excessive growing up. After being gone for years and living out of tents, the opulence borders on absurd.
The instant I step into the dining room, my father and mother look up. Three antler chandeliers hang above the length of the table, but none of the candles are lit. With the risen sun streaming in the wall of windows, candlelight is the last thing anyone needs.
My head pangs as if I need the reminder I barely ate or slept yesterday. I wince and start toward the far end of the table, where my parents sit with food in front of them but none on their plates.
Several servants stand along the wall opposite the windows, ready to jump in should any of us need drink refills or more food. As if we can’t get it for ourselves. War has spoiled me to these formalities. On the battlefield, where you only have minutes to eat most of the time, waiting on someone else to serve you what you are perfectly capable of serving yourself is asinine.
My father, naturally, sits at the head of the table. Mother sits at his right. I sink into the chair across from her and stifle another yawn as I push my sleeves up. Which looks ridiculous with the gloves barely reaching the middle of my arms. Every branch is visible. It’s ridiculous that my father even wants me to wear the gloves at all.
“Late night?” my father rumbles.
I blink at him, grimace again in the full sunlight, and regret my decision to sit across from the windows. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Mm.” His gaze bores into me. Without breaking eye contact, he flips his hand. Three of the servants appear, scooping sausage and chunks of cinnamon bread and fruit onto our plates. One pours wine for me with shaking hands and ducks away before I can meet his gaze.
“You didn’t have to wait for me.” I stare at the food, but though my stomach growls, I don’t move to start eating.
“It’s quite all right, darling.” Mother’s gentle voice draws my gaze up, and she smiles. “It’s wonderful to have you home.”
I try to match her expression, but I can’t. My eyes sting. Probably from facing the sun. I shake out my shoulders and take a sip of wine before picking up the fork. I don’t quite wolf down my food, but I still make it through almost half my meal before Father sets his goblet down with a pointedly loud clink.
Fight instinct spikes within me. It takes a second to make myself relax.
“Did you have a nice time last night?” he asks.
“At the masquerade?” I stab my fork into a peach chunk and pop it into my mouth. His left eye twitches at my lack of decorum as I add while chewing, “Not particularly.”
