Branrir, ever the practical one, remained unshaken. “I imagine breakfast will be indulgent, but not incomprehensible.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m preparing for everything to be the breakfast version of this corridor.”
The others chuckled softly, but beneath the humor, the tether throbbed with apprehension.
The doors groaned open.
The breakfast hall matched the absurdity of the rest of the castle.
Vaulted ceilings arched high above us, painted with golden lions locked in battle with dragons. Two colossal chandeliers hung overhead. At least four dozen embroidered banners draped the walls. At the far end of the long, gilded table stood the king.
Ugh. Just when I was having a nice morning.
He wore white and violet, black hair sculpted to perfection, his expression forcibly benevolent. He smiled at Quinn and pulled out the chair to his immediate right.
Of course he did.
Quinn hesitated, then crossed the room and sat with more poise than I could muster. A servant gestured to a chair intended for me, on the complete opposite end of the table, so far away from Quinn that I may as well have traveled back to Oronder.
Nope.
I grabbed the chair, dragging it right beside her, the screech of its legs against the floor echoing through the hall.
“Good morning, King E-prick, I trust you slept well,” I goaded.
The king’s smile tightened. “Edric.”
I smiled back. Broad. Toothy. Sarcastic enough to be considered an act of rebellion in a court this polished. “Isn’t that what Isaid?” I leaned back, settling into the chair, maintaining eye contact with his royal pompousness.
The king broke my gaze and rang a bell so dainty it barely made a sound—as though he were summoning a choir of birds rather than a horde of servants. A moment later, they poured into the room. Servants in matching black livery carried tray after tray of food. The scents of roasted fig, spiced meats, buttery pastries, and something citrus-bright and sharp filled the air.
All for five people.
And one smug cat.
The sheer excess of it made my stomach twist. Not because it wasn’t extraordinary, but because this single table could’ve fed my entire village for a week. Maybe longer.
Quinn stiffened beside me, eyes tracking the servants as they passed. I followed her gaze—and saw it. The dark, puckered scars seared into each of their cheeks, shaped like the letterU.
Every member of the waitstaff had the mark of the ungifted.
The flicker of horror and sorrow in her expression was gone as quickly as it came, smoothed into courtly calm, but I’d seen it. Ifelther sadness and anger quaver down the tether.
I wanted to reach for her hand beneath the table, to ground her, but the king was watching. Instead, I stayed still and pretended not to notice that her knuckles had gone white.
We ate, and the conversation was polite at first. Branrir praised the fig glaze on the ham. Thistle speculated whether the table’s centerpiece—a miniature citrus tree blooming in midwinter—was enchanted or merely ostentatious. Vesper leaned over to whisper that one of the scones was giving him a judgmental glare.
Halfway through the meal, right as I’d begun to believe we might escape breakfast without an ambush, Edric set down his goblet with a deliberate clink and turned to Quinn.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice velvet-smooth, everysyllable shaped as though he’d hand-polished it before release. “About your spell. About what you’ve endured.”
Quinn’s hand froze. Without a sound, she lowered her fork.
“My parents cast it,” he continued, folding his hands. “But I had no say in it. I didn’t know the extent of what they’d done—not then. I was kept from the details. Protected from the consequences, as royals so often are.” He paused, letting the silence stretch before adding, softly, “But I paid for it nonetheless.”
Quinn’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
Edric inclined his head gravely. “The spell didn’t exclusively bind you, Quinnie. My mother, Saints rest her soul, was a Time, one of the last of her kind. Her final act of magic ensured I would live long enough to find you again.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial, intimate. “To make the spell…survivable. For both of us.”
