He sighs. “Not this year. Uncle Hadrian has ordered twice the guard in the Forum.”
Wonderful. Not only will I have to see the absolute last person I want to, but I’ll get to watch Julian fall in love with every half-naked woman who parades by. The Capital officers are normally allowed to participate in the Revelry, and Julian’s father throws the second-largest celebration in the capital, but apparently, Jules will spend the night complaining about being on duty instead.
“Go get bathed or you’ll be late,” Julian says. “That’s not what you’re wearing, is it?”
He points to the armor on my sofa. I’ve shined the decorated steel to perfection, so I’m not sure why he’s frowning.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s the Revelry.” He gestures to himself, and I finally notice he’s in a white jacket fit for a ball, not service.
I throw up my hands in frustration. “Then fucking pick something. I don’t have time for this.”
His lips curl into a smile. “Yes, you wouldn’t want to keep the lady waiting.”
I swallow and look down at the ground before answering. “A thousand curses upon your soul.”
I stride out of the room and just barely resist slamming the door to the bath. Julian laughs because he’s goaded me into a temper. He’s right—about all of it—but there’s no need to tell him that. I don’t enjoy the Revelry and, for the first time, Kerasea Vestal will be on the dais next to me. Sharing the space with her father was bad enough. She’s worse.
A few months ago, Kerasea became the High Priestess of the temple of truth, and thus she is now a member of the Verity Guild—the three people tasked with deciding cases of high treason. The only other member aside from myself and the temple is Pol Probus, the Chief Judge of the Ministry of Justice. Citizens call ustheFatesbecause the Verity Guild is the highest tribunal in the land.
And now Kerasea gets to be a part of that. Next week we will have our first case together—to decide the fate of Trajan Lowe, a high nobleman accused of raising a private army in the sixth province.
I grip the shower’s faucet. I’ve spent years carefully evading any interaction with her, but I can’t avoid her any longer.
There isn’t a person less deserving than her. Jules teases me because he thinks I’m secretly in love with her beauty, but I’m not. Spoiled, elitist, and heartless, Kerasea might be beautiful, but she’s ugly to her core.
Her haughty laugh still rings in my ears the same way her father’s scornful look is emblazoned in my mind. I swore on the stars that day that I would ruin them the same way they did my family. And while I know better than anyone how hard it is to topple the elite in Pryor, Iwillfind a way to bring her to her knees.
But for now, I have to endure her.
Without waiting for the hot water, I plunge myself into the cold shower.
It’s going to be a long night.
III.
Kerasea
I try to will this gown to cover more of my skin as bearers carry my palanquin through the crowded Forum. But so far, this dress is just another of my recent missteps.
There’s barely room for me to sit up in here. The palanquin was made for one person to recline on pillows, lounging as servants carry their bed-like box atop poles through the busy city. It used to be the way the king traveled in the capital. Still, the people murmur as the golden palanquin passes by. Thousands of citizens have already gathered in the Forum, waiting for the Revelry to begin, but they make way for my grand entrance.
I’d rather just walk.
But feeling ridiculous in a gilded litter is the least of my problems. I keep smelling that mal omen and seeing the charred blackness. I sent a message informing the Senate Clerk, yet the Revelry is still proceeding. And worse, I allowed myself to think of my blood—and that, I never do.
Never, Kera, don’t even think it, my father said.The mouth is a conduit of the mind. If you think it enough, you will voice it, and no one can ever know your truth. Hide and survive.
Looking for any distraction, I shift the white curtain and peek out the side. Senator Verhardt sits on a golden throne once occupied by the king. Goose bumps coat my skin. I’d know the Senate Leader anywhere. Not from his short gray hair or his large, bulbous nose. It’s the cruel shape of his lips—and the way his gaze seems to always follow mine.
Verhardt is the senator who orchestrated the Crimson Night and, with the murder of the royals, he became the most powerful man in the republic. I shift a little farther back, careful not to draw his attention.
Next to him stand Antinous, the Senate Clerk, and Julian Monroe, the Capital Commander of the sentries.
The dais of the Verity Guild lies to the left of the throne. Pol Probus sits in his black robes looking half asleep. He was appointed three years ago, but he has to be eighty years old if he’s a day. His eyebrows are completely white, offsetting rich brown skin, and his jowls dip nearly to his shoulders. Next to him is my empty seat—and then there is the Praetorian.
I close the curtain and lean back on my cushion, my heart already pounding. I grip my gown, wishing I were in temple robes and not this golden, nearly see-through dress.
