“It’s a weapon,” Nythir said flatly. “Why are there three places to initial? Why does one of them require a seal? Why is the seal a phoenix?”
Vorrik leaned back in his chair, boots propped against the wall like a man who had never once worried about governance in his life. “Because kings like cool things.”
“I am not cool,” Nythir said.
Sylva, perched near the window with a dagger he absolutely did not need indoors, glanced over.
“Lie.”
Nythir shot him a look. “I am not.”
Sylva’s ears flicked. “You want to be.”
“I want to survive the week.”
That earned a laugh from Vorrik—a loud one. The kind that suggested this was the best entertainment he’d had since the war ended. In the history books, the battle at Draewyn would be written as a groundbreaking war between three nations. In truth, it had been the strangest culmination of individuals ever led by a woman with a purse.
The room they’d trapped him in was a sunlit study tucked away in the quieter wing of the castle. It smelled faintly of old books, wax polish, and impending doom.
Three days.
Three days until the wedding.
Three days until he would stand beside Esther in front of the entire kingdom and promise to be something he had never trained for, never planned for, and never wanted.
Except that she wanted him there.
Except that she chose him.
That was the problem.
The door opened, and Nythir’s soul withered a little more.
A court tutor entered, arms laden with books and scrolls, expression kind in the way of someone about to ruin his day.
“Lord Nythir,” the man said cheerfully. “Shall we continue?”
Nythir closed his eyes. “Definecontinue.”
Two hours later, Nythir was certain his soul had left his body.
He had learned: how to bow correctly (apparently there weredegrees), which fork to use at a diplomatic table (why were there six?) and that saying the wrong title could technically start a war.
He had also learned that Lyssara found all of thisdelightful.
“Again,” she said, watching him attempt a formal greeting. “Slower. You’re supposed to look dignified, not like you’re bracing for impact.”
“Iambracing for impact,” he hissed. “If I mess this up, Essie will—”
Sylva cleared his throat.
Nythir froze.
Sylva tilted his head slightly. “Fear.”
Nythir exhaled. “Yes. Obviously.”
“It’s loud.”
