I do as I’m told, placing the still-hot pie on the counter. I step away, hands tucked behind my back like I’ve seen so many other servants do at my father’s table.
Unceremoniously, the guard sticks his finger into the pie. “What’s this?” the guard asks, his voice low and teasing.
He watches me expectantly, waiting for an answer with his finger still deep in the pie’s crust. It must be hot, but the guard just stares at me with a wide, hungry smile.
“Rhubarb,” Aren says, coming up to my side, and then adds, “sir.”
The guard’s eyes turn hungry as he looks at Aren, and I bristle. The guard slowly pulls his finger out of the pie and licks it clean.
“Delicious,” he says, leering at Aren.
“Thank you, sir,” Aren says. “May we deliver it to the king now?”
The guard waves her on, and I set the pie on the cart with the others. Together, we push it into the hall and toward the throne room, all while the guard watches Aren with a salacious smile.
The desire for revenge boils inside me, waking the Rings.
The Rings have been quiet for so long. They grow more agitated with every step I take, their familiar hum coming to life.Not yet, not yet, I think, hoping to control them. Blood rushes in my ears, making it difficult to hear anything as we walk. The closer we get to the throne room, the worse it gets.
The throne room is the heart of the party. The music is loud, the roar of voices even louder. Guests are sprawled all over the hall on pillows and couches, slowing our progress as we navigate the cart to the table.
Everywhere, there are people gulping bottles of wine and soldiers having their way with masked, half-naked men and women. It is a last night of debauchery before they march off across the Waste.
I hear the cracking of whips, cries of pleasure or pain indistinguishable from one another, the sound of flesh pounding flesh. Bodies are draped across the floor, some so still it’s hard to tell if they are alive. All I want to do is cover my ears and close my eyes.
Suddenly I’m back in the dungeon.Cold, alone, hurt.The world closes in on me, and I fold into myself again, feeling small and helpless and weak—
Aren grips my hand, and I jolt back to the moment. I’d forgotten where I was, but her touch brings me back to myself. She lets go and looks at me from behind her fox mask, her eyes glittering with sympathy.
I can’t break now. I just need to survive a few more minutes.
We are almost there.
Servants are already tending to the table, laying out more of the cakes and pastries Aren had made, which the guests pounce on like ravenous dogs.Good.
Namreth watches this all from his golden throne at the end of the table, his hands folded in front of him, smiling at the scene around him. The table is piled high with food and drink, with more and more coming.
Servants swarm the throne room, darting in and out. I spot a cat-masked servant with a limp. Jared. My blood roars louder. Marcus must be close by even though I can’t see him. It won’t be long now.
My heart stops when Namreth calls to Aren, “You! Bring me one of those!”
Stay away from her, you prick. Don’t you fucking dare—
Aren sets down one of the special pies, but Namreth pays her no attention. He’s busy laughing at one of his generals dancing with a drunk girl in his arms.
Aren slips away, giving me one final look before disappearing into the sea of bodies.
Cackling laughter splits the air somewhere to my right. There’s a groan of pleasure from the back of the room. In my ears, my heartbeat thunders as I push the pie cart toward Namreth.
This will never end.
Namreth will never stop. He will keep hurting people, bleeding Estyrion dry, and haunting me forever. I can never rest again. Not unless I kill him.
Right now.
I slip my hand into the back of my waistband, feel the handle of the knife, and grip it—
The drunken general spots the pie on the table and drops his now-unconscious dance partner to the floor. He digs his grubby hands into it, thrusting fistfuls of crust and filling into his mouth. After several gulps, he stops, dead in his tracks. He breath falters, eyes bulging.
