“How is everyone feeling about the final trial?” I ask, breaking the heavy silence. I also want to gauge whether any of them share my suspicions—whether they sense something off about the simplicity of tomorrow’s trial, especially when compared to the complexity of the previous two.
Lydia’s sharp glare snaps to me, her eyes narrowing even further—something I didn’t think was possible. “And why would we tell you?”
Cynna, seated beside me, scoffs in exasperation. “Don’t be so paranoid, Lydia. She’s just asking a question. It’s not like she’s plotting some grand revenge against you.”
Lydia’s lips curl into a sneer. “She has nothing to take revenge for.”
“Oh, really?” Cynna tilts her head, her tone laced with mockery. “Has Helen’s unfortunate demise slipped your mind so quickly?”
“If Helen couldn’t win the trials without resorting to foul play, that’s her problem, not mine,” Lydia snaps, her words venomous.
I blink slowly, taken aback by how easily she dismisses the death of someone who’d been her friend since childhood. I can’t imagine treating Nyssa with such cold indifference. Then again, I wouldn’t have coaxed Nyssa into poisoning someone and left her to take the fall either.
“Weren’t you two close?” Cynna asks dryly, clearly echoing my thoughts.
“There are no friendships in the pursuit of a crown,” Lydia replies flatly, her voice devoid of any emotion. “I don’t even know why Helen bothered entering the trials. It was a complete waste of her time. Everyone knows Prince Keres and I are meant to be together.”
Her words send a ripple of tension through the room. My shoulders stiffen, and I’m not alone in my reaction. Beside Lydia, Zina swallows hard, her throat bobbing as her narrowed eyes flick to her so-called friend.
I lean forward, propping my chin on my hand, and fix Zina with an innocent expression. “Doyouknow that, Zina?”
She blinks, frowning at me. “Do I know what?”
“That you’re wasting your time,” I say, widening my eyes as if in genuine sympathy.
Beside me, Cynna lets out a strangled sound, disguising what I’m sure is laughter with an ill-timed cough.
I offer Zina a sweet smile, even as her face darkens with fury.
“I’m not the one wasting my time,Princess,” she spits, her voice a low hiss. “Everyone knows it’ll come down to a choice between me and Lydia. And it’s just as likely to be me as it is her.”
Lydia’s gaze whips around, glaring daggers at the side of Zina’s head. She opens her mouth and promptly closes it, both ladies shooting to their feet as Keres enters the room.
Cynna leans in as we both stand. Her eyes sparkle with amusement, devoid of the usual icy edge as she whispers conspiratorially. “I couldn’t tell who would be stabbed first—you, Zina, or me.”
“We’ll have to place bets for next time.”
“A golddrachmasays it’s you.”
“That’s exactly what my handmaiden thinks,” I say with mock hurt, holding a hand over my heart, and Cynna snickers. I glance over my shoulder at Nyssa. She’s gazing up at the ceiling, her lips pressed into a thin line as her body trembles with repressed laughter.
“Ladies,” Keres says, settling into his throne at the head of the table. “I’m honored to find myself in such beautiful company once again.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes when the others drop into elegant curtsies. As I sit back down in my seat, Keres’s gaze lingers on me, and I only release my breath when Lydia draws his attention away.
“Are you looking forward to seeing mytalenttomorrow, my prince?” The innuendo in her voice is so thick, I have the urge to avert my eyes.
Keres leans back in his throne, his thumb running across his lower lip while he stares back at her. “I am, Lady Lydia. In fact, I’m looking forward to seeing whatallof you have to show me.” His red eyes heat as they devour each of us like we’re his own personal buffet.
As if on cue, servants flood the room, carrying large dishes of food and jugs of wine. My mouth waters as the aroma of spiced meats drifts over me, and I press a firm hand against my stomach to tame the growl it threatens to let loose.
I needn’t have bothered.
My appetite curdles as a young serving girl leans past me to fill mygoblet with wine. A graying lock of her hair falls forward, bled of the rich brown shade among the rest of her curls. She can’t be more than sixteen years of age, and already her magic has been so abused that she’s being sapped of life.
Either that, or she’s a victim of Keres’s decaying touch.
Bile climbs up my throat when she places my cup before me and her hand trembles, drawing my eyes toward the papery skin crawling up her fingers.
