If I knew how to control my power, maybe I would have a chance at the emperor’s dinner. I could use Tiberius’s water to flood the room after I kill the emperor, giving myself a few minutes to escape.
I’m not hungry, but I make my way to breakfast anyway, finding a seat next to Micah, who gives me a nod.
“The Primus isn’t here,” he says unnecessarily when I sit down.
“I noticed.”
“If hewashere, he’d tell you to eat.”
I show him my teeth. “It’s a good thing he’s not here, then.”
He places his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand. “The two of you are fascinating to watch—”
“Micah.” Neris’s voice is heavy with warning as she takes the empty seat next to me. She studies my face. “You look exhausted.”
I shrug, and she shakes her head at me, handing me a piece of flatbread and some fruit. With a sigh, I take a bite.
Deitra and an imperium named Dolen are murmuring down the other end of the table, while Orna sits and stares at the empty chair across from her.
Lucius’s chair.
Maeva walks into the dining hall and our eyes meet for the barest moment before she turns her head, her face carefully blank.
I can’t do this. Getting to my feet, I ignore the eyes on me as I walk toward Deitra, dropping the note I’ve written next to her.
I’m calling in my favor.
She scans the instructions and gives me a tight nod. Good. She’ll make sure Leon doesn’t go anywhere near the palace.
I’m almost at the imperius quarters, when I feel it again.
The same, all-encompassing dread. The chill, deep in my bones. The knowledge that someone—orsomething—is watching me.
I stop midstep, barely breathing. The skin along my arms prickles, spreading to a low thrum at the base of my neck.
“Help me.”
My stomach spirals. I should have told someone. Should have swallowed my pride, pushed past the fear, and admitted I’m hearing strange voices.
“He wants us to return.”
My heart stops, then kicks in my chest, my pulse pounding in my ears.
It can’t be. I know it can’t be. And still …
“Gradon?”
Impossible.
“He wants us to return.”
Terror claws at my throat, my mouth turning dry as dust. That was Gradon’s voice. The same voice that always had a joke, a word of kindness. I hadn’t known him well, but there was no question he was a good man.
That samepullingsensation reaches for me, and this time, I bully myself into moving, refusing to give in to the instinct to freeze.
The first step is the most difficult. And then I’m stumbling into a jog, allowing that presence to guide me toward it.
Towardhim.
