The relief hits a heartbeat later. Sharp. Disorienting. Almost painful.
He didn’t force me.
And that frightens me more than anything else.
At lunch, Seraphina holds court with all the smugness of a conquering monarch.
“He took me to the hot springs,” she announces wistfully, swirling her glass like it’s laced with liquid diamonds. “Said the heat reminded him of my spirit.”
Her smile turns sharp. Deliberate. “And yes,” she adds smugly, “we did. Multiple times. And he still wanted more.”
Her meaning is unmistakable. It isn’t the first boast I’ve heard from her this week, and I know it won’t be the last.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Vivian breaks the silence. “Then why’d he choose Mariel for Sunday?”
Her voice is soft, almost careless, but the question lands like a blade on porcelain.
Seraphina stiffens. “Excuse you?”
Vivian lifts her gaze slowly, calm as still water. “If you and the king had such an unforgettable time, I just figured he wouldn’t have asked you to leave.”
The snicker escapes my throat before I can stop it, making me almostchokeon my tea.
Seraphina’s gaze snaps to me—sharp, assessing. Dangerous.
I meet it without flinching, then look back down at my plate, uninterested in the outcome.
If she wants to brag about sleeping with the king, what do I care?
All I want is to survive these trials, break this wretched curse, and go home.
That evening, I find Mariel sitting by the firelight in her room, brushing her hair in long, careful strokes. The flames catch on the strands, turning her dark curls to living embers. She looks up when I enter, her face unreadable.
“Well?” I ask.
“‘Well’ what?” she responds, looking confused for a split second before bursting into laughter.
I roll my eyes and take a seat in the chair beside her. She offers me some tea, which I politely refuse, remembering my near-death experience this morning.
“We drank jasmine tea,” she says after a while, “and walked the garden paths. He asked me about my village. My family. My dreams.”
A long pause.
“And you.”
I blink. “Me?”
Mariel nods, her voice quieter now. “He wanted to know how you saved us during the first Trial. Asked what books we had been getting lately from the library, and if there was anything we might need to further our research.” She hesitates, then adds, “He explained that while the curse prevents him from helping directly, he can aid us in other ways.”
I wrap my arms around myself, unsure whether to feel flattered or unsettled.
Maybe he’s gathering information. Maybe I’m a puzzle he intends to solve. Or maybe he just wants to understand me.
And I hate that part of me wants to be understood.
On Tuesday morning, Elena floats into the dining hall like a goddess from a fever dream—her hair tousled, her lips freshly painted, the collar of her silk robe slipping suggestively off one shoulder.
