He traced the stone along the wall with his gaze, the enormous villa suddenly stifling. A movement in the corner of his vision had his attention sliding left, where a kingsmen emerged from the villa's front doors. He wore Semmena’s sigil, a golden brooch engulfed in crimson flames, probably the only show of Melisandre colors the king dared display so boldly.
Cattya seemed about to speak, but she turned toward the kingsman instead, frowning as he stopped before them.
“A letter from the King,” the man said mechanically as he outstretched a folded note their way.
“Beat it, you. Guards aren't allowed in here.” Cattya made a show of wrapping her hand around Cas's bicep, and he was one more uninvited touch away from blasting her with a Ward now that his shackles were off. “You’re interrupting something.”
His Shadows rebelled against her, forcing her to take back a step.
When neither of them took the note from the man, he simply placed it atop a decorative table beside him. “Be punctual.”
Without further explanation, the kingsman continued walking, surely to deliver the notice to the rest of the prospects.
Cattya sighed, striding to retrieve the paper. She cleared her throat, then in a mocking tone read, “Dear Prospects of the fifty-third Coronation Vows, a welcome feast will be held in the dining room promptly at twilight. Attendance required.” She finished the sentence with a scoff. “Why the fuck does it not say an actual time?”
“Let me know what your sources say about the upcoming trials.” Cas pushed off the wall, rubbing his forearm. Sawyer’s blood calmed his tattoo, but it always left him with a relentless itch, as if it knew the blood was diluted.
Not from its creator.
“I don't do things for free, you know.” Cattya smiled wickedly, burning the note in a flicker of flames. “From what I remember, though, you don't mind my prices.” She inched closer and traced a hand across his chest, leaving a trail of sparks.
Enough.
He let his chest flare a flash of violet light, willing it to merely shock her. “Ask your people, Cat.”
“Don't tell me you actually think she will make a good Queen,” she called after him, rubbing her hand. “Semmena is just looking for a way to kill her without starting a war.”
“Ask your people.”
“But—”
“Or don't.” He walked back into the hallway, the Shadows along the wall taking him into an embrace. “Sol and I will survive either way.”
Twenty Four
THE THING ABOUT SITTING STILL
THE NOTE DIDN’Tsaywhere the feast was to take place, but Sol had no trouble finding everyone else. She spotted a cluster of prospects on their way, obvious by the red envelopes in their hands. She recognized Felice and Lucas Mintz, siblings from the Romalian Nobility.
As Sol trailed behind them, she wondered what the ‘Vows’ actually were. From what she had gathered, they were tests of some sort, and Finigan had mentioned something about possible sabotage amongst prospects. Were they allowed to just grab her and slit her throat, or were there certain times slaughter was allowed?
Perhaps she was being paranoid, but the promise of bloodshed was the one thing that seemed definite. Not that she was excited for it, she wasn't. But the lack of it made her more nervous for when it began, as if it would start all at once then never stop.
It would be fine.
It had to be.
She just had to avoid being killed.
The dining room was grand, as was everything in Rimemere. A sparkling, cascading chandelier lit with firelight winked against the golden wallpaper, and extravagant, silky red curtains hung over paintings of mountains and catacombs. In the center was an oblong table covered with foods even more foreign than the ones from the castle feast.
The savory scent of meat made her mouth water and her stomach clench, reminding her the last time she’d eaten was the day before. Steam danced from the pots of soups and cremes, and bowls of fruits glimmered with beckoning sweetness.
The prospects filtered into the chairs and a few immediately reached for the food not caring to serve themselves. Others simply looked around, scouting for danger or the most logical person to sit beside. Sol categorized herself with the latter crowd, though she truly had the feral desire to behave like the former. She spotted Cas toward the end of the table, alone and leaning back in his chair with a bored expression.
Sensing her, he glanced over and winked, to which Sol responded with an eye roll and a sharp turn in the direction away from him. She didn’t want to sit with these strangers and had half a mind to pluck a slab of meat and bolt back to her room, but a small hand tugged at her own.
Phil sniffed toward the table. “It smells amazing in here,” he breathed, feeling for the chairs. Beside him, his brother pulled one back for him.
