“I was a guardian at one of Lord Azazel’s temples,” Wynter says. I didn’t take him for the holy type.
Before I can ask more, I notice Kasper drinks, the question passing over him. A lordling’s son who went running for the immortals. I guess he doesn’t want the others to know. It makes me wonder why someone with money and power leaves for the unknown.
“I was part of the Ten Spires Clan in Valhan. I moved to Westfall just a month before the Selection. Just my luck.” Morgan’s bold statement distracts me. The Ten Spires is a collection of mercenaries, smugglers, petty thieves, and other undesirables. There’s a stronghold in every territory, and I was familiar with most members in Westfall. He could be harmless, or deadly, living among their ranks. Suddenly his behavior and the fact this drinking game was his idea makes me very suspicious. He wanted me to know this. What’s his endgame?
The rounds continue, easy enough at first. What Arcana would you choose if you could switch? What do you hope for your familiar to be once you reach third year? Would you rather have horns or wings after the Descent at the end of year?
But then Morgan turns to me, a glint breaking through the drunken haze in his eyes. “Do you find Prince Draven attractive?” Frustration wriggles in my gut.
“Who doesn’t?” Ember says blithely, giggling. I bite down a grin. Draven is objectively, undeniably, and unfortunately very attractive. But I don’t feel like telling anybody that, and with the fated matehood status lingering over us, and our vow, I’d need to be truthful and I’m not ready yet.
“I hope that’s not the question for all of us this round.” Kasper pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Fine, let me rephrase.” Morgan sets down his drink and leans too close. “If you could sleep with anyone at the Forge, who would it be?”
Wynter saves me. “I don’t think there’s enough alcohol on the table for this question.” He stands up and I abruptly follow, as does half the room. “Rune, can I get you some water?”
Thank the gods. “Yes.”
On my feet I’m twice as sick. Ember looks as green as I feel, stumbling out of the room, and I help her to the bathroom, waiting outside it. Wynter sidles up to me as I guard the door, handing me a glass of water, and points to my boots. “Those are really well crafted.”
“Oh, thanks.” I don’t expect the emotion that comes with talking about the boots my mother made, the emerald velvet sidings soft, the gold glint of thread outlining the sun and moon picking up every trace of zenith-powered light, so I cut myself off. My head is spinning. “I should head out. Will Ember be okay?”
“Cleona said she’d help her. Their Hearths are near each other. I’m happy to walk you back,” Wynter offers.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I lie, because I’m a gods damned liar who can’t stand to accept help. I straighten up, suppressing a hiccup, and he runs a hand through his dark hair, following me cautiously to the threshold. Some of the others wander past us, branching off into the night. I’m happy I don’t see Morgan. Either he’s still here, or he’s already on his way back to his Hearth next door. Either way, I can avoid him.
“He and Kasper left.” Wynter lingers at my side, seemingly reading my thoughts.
“He was quite drunk.” I fold my arms, wishing the air was cooler. I’m flushed from drinking. If the world could stop spinning, that’d help.
“We’re all drunk. I’m suspecting he’s just a creep.” Wynter gnaws his lip as I stagger, my nodding taking me off-balance again. “Wraiths don’t drink much, do they?”
“Wraiths crash parties but don’t get invited.”
He laughs quietly, leaning casually against the door, the full moon’s light gracing the fine details of his face.
My brows furrow. “How are you not as drunk as the rest of us?”
“I have a high tolerance. Plus, I switched my bottle out for water over an hour ago.” He releases a small chuckle.
Why didn’t I think of that?
Wynter laughs at my flabbergasted expression, the sweet sound carrying off on the chilly breeze.
“Sorry I left the ball early.” I don’t know what makes me say it. He glances off, his hands in his pockets.
“It’s okay. Maybe we will catch that dance another time.” He swallows when I don’t commit, and the moon glances off his silver eyes as he shoots a look toward my Hearth. “You and Prince Draven seem … a strong match.”
What do I do here? I shrug, attempting nonchalance, and struggle for the right lie, mind filled with images of the dark prince, those sultry lips, that aggravatingly coy smirk. “Well … I mean … we’re still figuring it out—”
“It’s okay.” He smiles, yet there’s no crinkle to his eyes, no joy. “I can see how you feel about him written all over your face. No need to explain it to me.”
But I want to. Some stupid part of me longs to leave this door open. But … that’s not the deal I made. “You could invite him, next time, if you’d like to?”
The idea of Draven hanging out with my friends feels odd, like bringing a dragon home for dinner. His presence is so big.I brace myself against the wall, using it for support. I hiccup. “Maybe he’ll want to come next time. I’ll ask, if he’s home.”
Wynter grimaces as he hangs back, like not escorting me fights against his better judgment. “Well, it’s not far, so if you’re sure you don’t need me, I’ll head in. Try to get some sleep.”
