The two young women look up at me, their eyebrows raised. “Not from around here, are you?” says the raven-haired woman.
Whoever he is, I’d rather not serve him, but luck isn’t on my side, and the only other server is predictably nowhere to be seen.
The owner – Mr Bo, as I’ve since learned his name – shoots me a look from behind the bar that translates to, “What are you waiting for? Get on with it.”
I nod and smooth down my apron before crossing the room. The handsome but arrogant customer barely notices me as I approach. He still has his feet up on the table, chair tipped back at a precarious angle. A rogue streak of twilight sun reflects off the window into his lap, and he toys idly with it, bending the light as though it’s something tangible and shining it in his companion’s eyes. He’s a Helio.
I follow his hair to where it brushes against his collar, pausing an instant on his face, which is sprinkled with a constellation of freckles. He’s wearing a black silk blouse unbuttoned at his chest, tucked into a pair of tight black trousers.
Our eyes meet. I’m surprised by how striking his are – a deep, dark brown – and the intensity of his expression. Then he snaps his fingers at me, and a bolt of recognition skitters across my skin.
He’s Cyrus, the youngest son of High Prince Hevio, hailing from the neighbouring principality of Solara. His brash reputation precedes him; he is a constant in the headlines for all the wrong reasons.
I also recognize his companion now. He’s Gideon, Cyrus’s long-time servant. He’s slightly shorter with a lean physique, olive skin and a sort of confident indifference.
“Welcome to the Lucky Fish,” I say, the cheerfulness of my smile a thin veil over the irritation simmering beneath.
Cyrus scowls. “Took you long enough. The service here is atrocious.”
I arch a brow. That’s some cheek, speaking to me like I’m one of his servants. He probably expects me to fall to his feet and apologize, but that’s not happening.
“If you don’t like it here,” I say, “you could always take your business elsewhere.”
Cyrus blinks as though he’s never been defied before. Then he lets out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Do you even know who I am?”
“This is Young Prince Cyrus of Solara,” Gideon declares, introducing him as though we’re at some diplomatic dinner rather than a waterside tavern. “Fourth in line to the throne and future victor of the Reckoning,”he adds loudly, mostly for the benefit of those seated around them, who all clap obligingly.
I try my best to conceal my surprise.The Reckoning? Is the prince really here to compete in the tournament?
I didn’t think dignitaries were eligible to participate. And is High Prince Hevio OK with sending his son into what might be a fight to the death?
Cyrus snaps his fingers again, right in front of my face. “Oi! Are you listening?” The impatience in his voice permeates the air around him. It smells sharp and metallic, like a dirty copper coin. “Quit loafing around and serve us. We’ve travelled a long way, and I don’t have all day.”
“If you’re ordering drinks, I’ll have to see your sigils.” I don’t, really. Cyrus’s extravagant twentieth birthday was splashed across the front page of every newspaper only a couple of months ago, so I know he’s over the legal drinking age of eighteen. But the look of utter disbelief crossing his features now makes feigning naivety all the more worth it.
“My sigil?” he asks. “This is ridiculous.”
“No sigil, no drink.”
His reaction is immediate and explosive. He leaps to his feet and clamps his hands around my wrists. I try to wrench free, but he shoves me back against the wall behind me, pinning me there. Several customers gasp, but Cyrus ignores them.
“How dare you say no to me?” he spits. “Do you have any idea what my father could do to this place? A word from me and he’ll raze it to the ground, with you still in it!”
I hold my ground, locking eyes with him despite the fury swirling in his dark irises. “I doubt that’s true,” I say as calmly as I can. “Considering he’s allowing you to fight in the tournament, it’s unlikely your father even cares whether or not you’re here.”
His eyes widen. I watch as his expression contorts into a look of pure hurt before rage takes over.
That’s it, I think.This is exactly the kind of anger I’m after.
The air around him crackles, and shadows start to gather around his face, dark wisps of negative energy that snake and coil across his forehead.
Cyrus’s grip on my wrists hardens. It hurts, but adrenaline fuels me, heightening my senses. I want to reach out, my fingertips tingling with the anticipation of making contact with his turbulent aura.
One touch, and I’ll have a glimpse into his deepest fears and vulnerabilities; valuable information Taron and I could use against him in the tournament. But then…
“What do you think you’re doing?” Taron’s voice lacerates the air. Sharp. Cold. I glance over as he drops a crate of dishes on a nearby table and steps forward.
In seconds, he’s closed the gap between them. He doesn’t touch Cyrus, only stares at him without moving. The Young Prince blinks in surprise. He lets go of me, and the negative energy inching across his skin recedes. I bite the inside of my cheek.I was so close.
