I’m attentive to Verhardt, but as I sit on my cushion, I’m far too conscious of the Praetorian beside me. I feel him the way prey animals sense predators skulking nearby. My skin turns to gooseflesh as he leans closer to me.
“How much did you pay the kid?” he whispers.
Ire rises through my chest, and I clench my teeth until my jaw aches. I shouldn’t engage, because I know he’s goading me. I shouldn’t respond, even if true believers hailing the Faith have been dismissed as a cheap ploy. The temple doesn’t shift when a child kicks at its stones. I am above taking the bait from someone like him.
“Shouldn’t you be cutting off a man’s toes for fun?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Surprise lights his features, and then he rests his arm on the back of my chair. He keeps his gaze on the crowd as they sing the anthem of Pryor, but his nearness is unsettling. Having avoided each other successfully since we were children, we’ve never been this close.
“You have your bird signs; I have other means of getting to the truth.”
His deep voice rumbles. I inhale and pretend like I don’t feel it in the base of my spine. Morbid curiosity fills me, and I want to ask what he means, but then I remember that I don’t have casual conversations with this man. And then I recall why.
Torren Morvane became Praetorian at the age of twenty-one—by delivering a man to the Senate in burned pieces. He used tactics so brutal, they changed the rules of engagement after. And looking at him now, I can see that capacity for violence. It’s branded into him from the tightness of his jaw to the curve of his fist.
The temple had advised against his appointment because Torren’s father was a convicted traitor. Treachery seeps into the blood, my father said, but the Council insisted they would not hold the acts of the father against the son.
Yet, Torren holds it against me. Rather than blame the traitor for his own disloyalty, the Praetorian decided to hate us for my father simply seeing justice done. No matter how harsh the sentence, his father was the one who committed the crimes. Twelve years ago, I swore to what I witnessed, and the Verity Guild rightly convicted him.
I force myself to move away as Verhardt finally sits. The Capital Commander rises, and that draws the Praetorian’s attention.
With a population of a million people, the capital city has its own commander of the sentries. Julian Monroe is only twenty-four, but he is a future patron and the nephew of General Hadrian. Which is all to say, the man is connected, elite, and in a position of great power. He is someone to watch.
“Now that the Revelry has officially commenced, I’d like to take a moment to remind the people of this great city that we will be standing guard,” Julian says. “It’s a night of celebration and sin, but make your celebration large and your sins small or you risk spending the Atonement in a cold jail cell.” He pauses, his heavy gaze sweeping across the crowd before a wide smile overtakes his features. “Happy Revelry!”
The crowd cheers, and even the Praetorian smiles slightly.
The citizens of Pryor will now feast and celebrate until predawn. Then, shortly after sunrise, they’ll fall on their knees, repenting for Atonement Day.
Senator Verhardt approaches the dais with his sentries.
“Shall we retire to the terrace for refreshments?” Verhardt asks.
Probus nods and stands first—I suppose he was actually awake. Verhardt offers me his arm while barely acknowledging the Praetorian.
“Of course,” I say.
Verhardt looks over his shoulder and commands the Praetorian like a dog. “Follow along.”
It should feel good to see Torren put in his place, but for some reason, it doesn’t. An uneasy sensation tightens my stomach, and I turn and glance at him. He’s silent, but there’s fire in his expression. Our eyes meet and he looks away, coloring slightly.
I face straight ahead, regret filling me. I shouldn’t have turned or felt even a touch of sympathy. The Praetorian would not feel a drop of compassion for me. No, he’d hunt me down and dismember me without mercy if he knew what I am. I’ve been sure of that for years.
Then I sigh as I remember: the conclave begins tomorrow night. Meaning I’ll be locked in with him atop Mount Ara for a week, with no means of escape.
IV.
Torren
The veranda of the Senate Hall is a second-story stone terrace overlooking the Forum. Because it is so close to the altar, sentries make way for us to walk through the crowd.
I keep my eyes sharp, because even though there are a hundred sentries in the Forum, there are thousands of citizens packing the square. Each one could pose a threat, and the mob is the most dangerous of all creatures. It is my duty to protect the Senate—no matter the risk or danger.
And no matter what I may feel about them personally.
I survey the crowd, ignoring the dozens of women clamoring for my attention by waving handkerchiefs and calling my title. Entanglements are a headache I don’t need. I have plenty of problems, including the one in front of me.
“What were you two chatting about on the dais?” Julian whispers.
