With a small, practiced smile, she lifts her goblet. “To fate. To the gods. And to the one who will rise above the rest.”
The hall echoes her toast in uneven unison, tension thick enough to taste.
Dinner begins, goblets are filled with wine, platters are carried in, and voices rise around me. The talk flows easily among them. They talk about hunting, politics, training, and kingdoms. I listen, nod, and answer politely. But my mind is never entirely on their words.
Lioran tries more jokes, some of them completely ridiculous, some clever enough to coax real laughter out of me,surprising even me. The others roll their eyes, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Aleric talks about his studies, his hope to expand healing magic. His kindness seems genuine.
Asbel talks about strategy and warfare, his tone clipped and precise, as though every word is a battle plan.
Osric listens more than he talks, but when he does, his insights cut sharper than expected. There is something about him that unsettles me.
Aren’s replies are short but steady, a soldier through and through.
Koen says next to nothing, just drinks his wine slowly, eats without rush, and watches.
When I finally turn to him again, it’s deliberate. I keep my voice calm, almost casual. “So,tavern boyof Zea's Hollow, whatmade you decide to enter the trials?”
He freezes for a second, goblet halfway to his lips. Lowering it, he says, “I didn’t.”
Brows lift around the table. I tilt my head. “You didn’t?”
“My friend entered me. I found out when the guard came for me.”
“Yet, here you are.” I gesture to him.
He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine. “Life has a way of reshaping plans.”
Something twists inside me at those words. I’m not sure why. All of a sudden, I feel a tug in my chest, a warmth where absolutely none should be.
My heart betrays me by skipping, then stumbling. I quickly turn away, studying the flicker of the candles to hide theflush in my cheeks.
For the rest of the meal, I force myself not to look at him. Not once. Yet, every breath, every laugh, every word—I’m aware of him.
By the time I excuse myself, my head is aching, and my smile feels too thin.
Torin and Alira trail behind me in silence back to my chambers.
The moment I step inside, I strip the gown off with relief, pulling on a robe. Alira, all red hair and blue eyes, flops dramatically onto the couch like she owns it, tossing her slippers across the room. Torin leans against the wall near the door, arms folded, dark hair half-up in a bun, silent but watchful.
“Well,” Alira drawls, draping herself over a pillow, “that was…interesting. I don’t even know where to start.”
Torin chuckles. “The healer from the capital nearly choked when you looked his way. And Lioran had you laughing like old friends.”
I smile faintly. “I like Lioran. He’s funny. You have to admit, his smile is infectious. I could see us becoming good friends.”
Alira tilts her head, grinning. “That’s high praise, coming from you. But let’s not forget about Koen. Stars above, Ren, the way you stared at him. I thought you were going to leap across the table.”
I shoot her a glare. “I wasnotstaring.”
“You were,” she says sweetly, “and he was staring back. The tension could’ve boiled my soup. What was that?”
I press my lips together. “My shadows…they—they tried toreach for him.”
Alira’s grin fades. “That wasbecause ofhim? Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, chewing on my lip.
