The signature predatory intensity with which he watches the party, too.
I have to admit, he looks unnervingly good.
But I’m not here for Stark. My eyes veer away from him, searching the crowd until they find Killian.
He’s sitting on the dais with his father near the back of the room, dressed in gold and royal purple—looking every bit the crown prince. The cut of his jacket emphasizes his muscular frame, and his burnished-gold hair shines in the light of the thousands of candles and lanterns in this cavernous space. If Stark is a black hole, Killian is a luminous sun. The whole party tilts toward his warmth. Our eyes meet and my heart stutters.
Then the herald cries, “Strategos Rawbonds!”
The air is thick with excitement and nerves as our names are announced one by one.
“Rawbond Izabel Brooks… Rawbond Tomison Thorne….Rawbond Nevah Rivenson…”
Then finally, “Rawbond Meryn Cooper!”
I step into the ballroom, my heart loud in my ears. The weight of countless nobles’ gazes presses down on me—the common-born girl who survived the Trials. The outsider in the emerald dress.
Anassa’s presence ripples along our bond, carrying her amusement. She finds this human pageantry silly—but there’s something else under that. A thread of warning.
Immediately, I start to question her. Does she expect an attack? This isn’t going to turn into another bloodbath like the Presentation, is it? Or is she warning me about the lecherous nobles?
“Watch your back,”is all she says.
Helpful.
Perturbed, I join the other Rawbonds at our table where we wait for the rest to make their entrance. Audelie, the king’s chosen companion, gets both claps and smirks from the nobles when she enters with the Phylax pack.
That roil of disgust is back; they demand we’re on display for them, then dare to ridicule us for it?
Audelie’s in a white dress that goes up to her neck, with long sleeves and a skirt that hits her ankles… but it’s entirely translucent and she’s wearing nothing underneath. I realize with muted horror that her full breasts and nipples, and even the curl of hair between her legs, are exposed to the entire ballroom. She keeps her head high as she slinks over to the king’s side and arranges herself artfully on his lap.
Monster.
Finally, a few minutes later, everyone is here. The king shoves Audelie off him and rises, voice booming over the ballroom.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Forging Ball,” he says with pomp and grandiosity. “I am so pleased to have you all here to celebrate the successful completion of this year’s Purge Trial. Please, eat, dance, and enjoy your evening.”
With that, he gestures to the orchestra, and the music strikes up again. I catch Killian’s deep blue gaze, aching to go to him—but he’s already surrounded by a group of young nobles vying for his attention. An uncomfortable spark pings through me.
Jealousy, I realize. We’ve never been in a position before where I’ve had to watch him around other women.
Turns out, I fucking hate it.
Almost everyone at our table gets up to join the party. Izabel and Venna are talking beside me, gossiping about the nobles in attendance, their hands fluidly in motion as the clamor of the ballroom starts to make it hard for Venna to hear. I catch something about an affair and a bastard child, but I’m only halflistening and watching, trying not to be too obvious as I track Killian’s movement through the crowd.
Eventually I lose him in the sea of suits and dresses, though I find myself fielding a lot of curious looks from the other nobles.
Dammit. Where did he go?
I can’t help myself—I need to have him in my sights. Standing, I make my excuses to the twins, and start moving purposefully toward the crowd.
Unfortunately, I don’t get far before a short, middle-aged man with a bushy mustache and a leer steps into my path. There’s a thin, horse-faced woman at his side—his wife, perhaps. She leers at me, too, her lips pulling back from her gummy teeth in what might be an impression of a smile.
“Look at this one, Dinah,” says the man—talkingaboutme I realize, and not to me. “What an unusual hair color.”
The wife reaches out and pokes me in the upper thigh. “Wider hips than the others, though,” she says, as if she’s appraising cattle. “A bit shorter, too. Common-born, maybe?”
The whole thing shakes me so much that it’s thrown off my instincts. I try to step back, my stomach churning, and the man grabs me by the wrist, yanking me toward him.
