As the others go their separate ways, I’m left alone with Zeriel.
“We need to eat,” he says, and starts down the corridor.
I sigh and catch up to him.
As we move through the fortress, I notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the tunnels. Servants move with greater urgency, guards stand more alert at their posts. The tournament's sudden acceleration has set everyone on edge.
He leads me through the corridors to a kitchen somewhere near the men’s barracks, where he requisitions a tray of food with his usual brusque authority. The server's eyes widen slightly when she sees me beside him, but asks no questions as she piles bread, cheese, and stew onto the tray.
When we finally reach Zeriel's room, he sets the tray on the table. He secures the door with multiple locks, then performs a quick sweep of the room: checking corners, moving furniture slightly, examining air vents. Maybe it’s a routine for him, but one he executes with particular vigilance tonight.
“Paranoid?” I ask.
“Cautious,” he corrects. “Especially now that we're carrying secrets worth killing for.”
We both sink into chairs around the table. When I hit my seat, I’m suddenly fully aware of how my limbs tremble withfatigue. The first bite of bread tastes like salvation, and I chew slowly, trying to savor the simple pleasure of food after exhaustion.
We eat in silence, the scrape of spoons against bowls louder than either of us cares to admit. I keep my eyes on the stew, though every so often I catch myself glancing at him, trying to read what’s going on behind that carved-stone face. The day’s revelations sit between us like a third presence—untouched, unspoken, but impossible to ignore.
When the bread’s gone and the bowls are scraped clean, Zeriel pushes back from the table. His hand drags through his dark hair, leaving it more disheveled than before, though his eyes look distant, fixed on something I can’t see.
“Take the bed tonight,” he says abruptly, already half rising. “I’ll be down the corridor. In the men’s quarters.”
I blink. “What?”
He grabs his blade from the side table, sliding it back into its sheath. “Scream if there’s trouble. I’ll hear you.”
“Wait—” I start, but he's already at the threshold.
He pauses there, not quite looking at me. “I’ll lock it.” Then in an instant he’s gone, the door clicking shut with quiet finality.
I stare after him, thrown by the sudden shift. The other night he hogged the bed like it was a throne. Now he’s suddenly charitable? No. Zeriel doesn’t yield out of kindness. What I can’t decide is if this is some kind of strategy, or just his way of building another wall between us. Maybe he wants distance after whatever Selen ripped open. Maybe he thinks we both do.
The silence presses suddenly heavier in his absence. But… a whole apartment to myself should be cause for celebration.
I cross to the door and slide the bolt into place on my side, too. Thoroughness—or maybe defiance. His footsteps echo through the wood, steady, purposeful, until they fade. I find myself wondering if he’s really headed to the men’s barracks… or prowling somewhere else, too restless to sleep.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. Doesn’t matterwhere he’s going. All that matters is that I get through the night in one piece.
I survey the space that now belongs solely to me. The bed looks impossibly inviting after the day's exertions. But sleep still feels somehow… distant.
I drift toward the small window, staring out at the night sky beyond the Ironhold’s walls. The stars glitter coldly, indifferent as ever to the games played beneath them.
Chapter 38
Istrip off my boots and outer clothes, then slide beneath the covers. My body feels like one giant bruise, muscles protesting every movement. I stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the stone until my eyelids finally grow heavy.
When sleep comes, it drags me under completely.
I'm small again, so small my feet barely touch the floor when I sit in a chair. The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of spices and wood smoke. I'm playing with a wooden spoon, making it dance across the tabletop while my mother kneads dough, her hands dusted white with flour.
“Veyra, sweetie,” she says, her voice like music, “careful with that. Your father carved it special.”
My father. Tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes like the sky. He's been quiet today, watching Mother with a strange expression.
Night falls. I should be in bed, but I've crept from my room, drawn by raised voices. I crouch in the hallway, my nightgown pooling around my bare feet.
“You lied to me,” my father hisses, his voice sharp with betrayal. “All this time.”
