“She has a point,” I reply, already moving toward the corridor. “WhereisSir Holden?”
“He’s probably brooding in some shadowy corner, polishing his sword,” Nadya quips, falling in step beside me. “Or sharpening his scowl. That man needs to learn how to let loose once in a while.”
I think about the times Sir Holden has given me space or looked the other way when I needed him to, and I feel the need to defend him. “He’s not always so serious.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
We weave through the quiet palace halls, passing open archways that let in the warming Bastosi breeze. Most of the court is still abed, nursing their indulgences from the night before. When we reach the west wing, I pause outside the door we’re told is his and give a sharp knock.
Nothing.
I exchange a glance with Nadya, then knock again, louder this time.
The door creaks open, and Sir Holden fills the frame, his bare chest catching the early sunlight. His hair, usually perfectly combed, is rumpled, and a faint flush warms his chiseled features. For once, the man looks less like a sentinel forged from stone and more like, well, a man.
I can’t help but smirk. Over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of tousled sheets and the very same Bastosi lord who had been speaking far too closely to him at last night’s feast is now stretched languidly across the bed.
“I—” Nadya’s jaw hangs open, but I cut her a knowing glance, willing her to hold back the quip already forming on her tongue.
Sir Holden, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he squares his shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest. His expression is as impassive as ever, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—an unspoken request for discretion.
Tit for tat, I guess.
“Sir Holden, we would like to go out,” Nadya announces, her voice dripping with false innocence. “And we need you to join us. After all, we wouldn’t want to be unprotected while we explore this strange and mysterious realm.”
His lips press into a thin line. “Is this an official errand?”
“Of course,” I say. “Call it a… familial obligation.”
He exhales quietly, the faintest hint of a sigh. Then, casting a glance over his shoulder at the half-draped man still lounging in his bed, he mutters, “Give me half an hour.”
The door clicks shut.
I blink, struggling to contain the grin tugging at my mouth. Beside me, Nadya raises her brows and lets out a low whistle.
“Well,” she says, laughter bright in her voice. “I take it back, Celeste. Guess he knows how to let loose, after all.”
I shake my head, letting out a laugh as we head back down the corridor. “There’s hope for him yet.”
“And a very satisfied Bastosi in his bed,” Nadya murmurs, sending us both into a fit of laughter as we traipse toward the main wing of the palace.
The morning air is thick with the familiar scent of jasmine and warm, spiced incense curling through the archways. Shimmering sunlight filters through the sheer, silken drapes, casting golden patterns on the polished marble floors. The palace hums with a lazy, decadent energy—servants in gossamer fabrics drift by, carrying trays of citrus fruits and honeyed pastries. Everything here is designed for pleasure, from the velvet-cushioned benches to the sweeping murals depicting Bastosi gods tangled in their endless indulgences.
Near the entrance, the coach master, a wiry man with sun-bronzed skin, bows low when he sees us. “Your carriage will be ready shortly, YourHighness,” he says, his voice as smooth as the wine they serve here.
I nod in acknowledgment, and I allow my mind to wander to where Dante might be. Is he still sleeping? Is he even still alive? Yes, of course, he must be. I would have heard something if whatever challenge they’d put him through had proven fatal. Did the queens make him do something sordid as his part of his test?
Gods, I hope not.
A throat clears behind me, and I whirl around just in time to see Sir Holden descending the grand staircase.
He’s back to his usual, imposing self—broad shoulders squared, uniform pressed and pristine. There’s no trace of the disheveled man we found at his chamber door earlier, though the faint pink at the edge of his jawline suggests he shaved in haste. If he’s annoyed at being pulled from his…extracurricular activities, he gives no sign.
“I assume we’re ready?” His voice is clipped, as professional as ever, though his gaze lingers on Nadya just a fraction longer than necessary.
“Whenever you are.” I make a point to give him a polite smile.
Sir Holden’s jaw tightens slightly, but then he gestures toward the front gate. “Your carriage awaits, Princess.”
