“Thank you,” I reply, inclining my head.
We head up the narrower stairwell tucked between the tavern and the back hallway, Sir Holden trailing behind us with the quiet steadiness of a shadow. He doesn’t comment, just positions himself at the landing outside our door like a sentry cast in stone.
Inside, the room is modest but comfortable. Two beds, each with thick quilts and downy pillows, flank a small, carved dresser with a mirror cracked at one corner. A basin sits on the washstand near the shuttered window, where warm evening light filters in, catching on the floating dust motes like fireflies drifting through amber.
The air smells of lavender sachets, most likely tucked beneath the mattresses, and old wood warmed by sun.
“There we are,” says the innkeeper’s wife, placing a key on the table beside the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate. Dinner will be served downstairs at seven sharp. You’ll hear the bell.” She dips a curtsy and disappears back down the hall with the whisper of her skirts.
As she departs, Indira shuffles into the room, inspecting it with curiosity.
Nadya immediately flops back onto the nearest bed, arms spread wide, a satisfied groan escaping her lips. “After all those hours in the carriage, this feels like heaven.”
Indira makes a noise of disapproval and folds her arms. “Don’t gettoo comfortable. You both need to get ready for dinner.”
Nadya smirks, not moving an inch. “Come on, Indira. You’ve been trapped in an even more cramped carriage than we have. Don’t tell me your rear isn’t screaming for mercy.”
There’s a pause.
Then Indira exhales with exaggerated patience and settles into the overstuffed armchair beside the dresser. “Fine. But only because the bench cushions are about as soft as a knight’s breastplate. And only for a minute.”
I smile faintly, letting the door click shut behind me as I step farther into the room.
The quiet of the inn wraps around me like a blanket not quite warm enough. It feels like a pause in the middle of a battle, one of those rare breaths where the dust hasn’t yet settled and no one is shouting orders. Just space.
I cross the room and sit on the bed meant for me, letting out a long breath. My body seems to thank me for the momentary rest. It’s a small reprieve, but I’ll take it.
ChApter
Eighteen
The common room of the inn has been transformed—at least, as much as a common room can be. The wooden tables have been pushed aside to make way for a single long one, polished until the waxed surface glows in the flickering lamplight. The innkeeper cleared the space himself, having barked orders to his staff with military precision, and now oversees the evening like a general watching over his prized battalion. His shirt is freshly laundered, his apron crisp, and he moves between bar and table with the focus of a man determined to impress. He doesn’t sit—wouldn’t dare. But every time a platter is brought out or a cup refilled, he is nearby, murmuring to his staff with a hand at his hip and a hawk-like eye on every detail.
The air smells of roasted pheasant and rosemary potatoes, warm bread and sweet apple glaze. The fire in the hearth crackles steadily, throwing gold and amber light across the beams overhead. Outside the inn’s mullioned windows, the sky has turned a deep indigo, the first stars already visible between the branches of the tall trees that surround this edge-of-nowhere village.
Guards sit at the far end of the room, near the windows, eating fromheavy, wooden plates and keeping their voices low. I catch sight of Sir Holden among them, speaking quietly to Sir Donovan as he saws into his meat. None of the servants dine with us, though I don’t know if they eat somewhere else or not at all.
I’ve changed out of my traveling clothes into something simpler—still dark enough to befit mourning, but less suffocating than the gown from the road. A high-collared tunic in black velvet with long, flowing sleeves, and a long skirt that flows to my boots. No veil. No fanfare. But the mask of sorrow is still present.
Ezra sits beside Farvis, the two of them already deep in conversation when I arrive with Nadya. The king is at the head of the table, relaxed, confident, like he’s already conquered this village just by arriving.
I slide into the seat across from Dante.
He’s dressed in black again, though his tunic is looser now, the collar open enough to show the edge of his collarbone. His hair is damp and curls slightly at the ends, where it brushes the backs of his ears. I try not to look too long, but I catch him holding his gaze as well.
The chatter rises slowly around us. The king compliments the inn’s cider. Farvis offers some veiled opinion about the road being better maintained than he expected.
One of the waitresses—a curvy young woman with honey-blonde hair and a flush that suggests she’s had a few sips of that cider herself—leans over Dante, her hand resting on his shoulder as she sets a bowl in front of him.
“I hear you’re the future prince,” she says, her voice too sweet to be accidental.
Dante’s mouth curves slightly, but he keeps his tone polite. “Only if the king has his way.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will,” she says, her eyes darting to Silas and back. “If there’s anything you need tonight, my lord, anything at all…” She leans a bit closer, and her bodice shifts just enough to reveal her intent.
On the outside, I keep my expression neutral. On the inside, I’m already calculating the exact angle I’d need to throw my dagger into the back of her hand without nicking Dante’s skin. It wouldn’t take morethan a flick of my wrist, and it would be embedded in her flesh before anyone realized what had happened.
But I don’t move. I reach calmly for my cup and sip the watered wine.
