I look up at the sound of the overseer’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Move,” Fenrix snaps. “You’re needed on the far side. Some noblemen did not care for the vintage and poured it into Lord Maltos’ prized Death Blossoms. If they don’t survive, I’ll see your head on a pole”
I nod, already shifting, already stepping back into the rhythm of the work. Because that’s what this is. Work. Survival. Nothing more.
Nothing else.
Even if the way he looked at me?—
No. It doesn’t matter.
It can’t.
4
VERR
The garden smells like polished stone, perfume, and bloodshed waiting to happen. I can’t even smell the plants. They’ve been overwritten by dark elf essence. The essence of violence.
Not literal violence. Not yet. But it’s there. Under everything. I feel it envelop me the second I step onto the flagstones and into an arena far more dangerous than any on Minos.
The space opens wide and tall, columns rising like blades carved from black-veined marble, the ceiling lost in shadow where light from suspended magic burns cold and steady. You can’t even see the moon or stars this eve. Just blackness beyond the edge of sorcerous machinations.
Sound carries differently here—voices layered over one another, edged with something sharper beneath. Expectation. Hunger. I don’t allow my thoughts to reach my face, keeping my expression on the cold, neutral ‘edge of readiness’ like my father taught me with the back of his hand.
They notice anyway. Of course they do. Their skill at this game far exceeds my own. Conversations shift—not stop, neverstop—but bend. Tilt. Like I’ve stepped into water and everything around me has to adjust to the disturbance.
“Verginyon.”
My father’s voice finds me before anyone else can. I turn.
Maltos stands near the center of the hall, surrounded but untouched. Nobles cluster around him like they’re drawn to gravity they don’t understand, their laughter just a little too sharp, their posture just a little too careful. He is resplendent in thin, breezy silk that clings to his form and shows off his daily physical regimen. The smile on his lips has nothing to do with warmth. It never has before and likely never will.
I cross the distance without hesitation. Each step deliberate. Just the way I am supposed but not expected to. Everyone watches without seeming to, aware of my every breath. Possibly every beat of my heart.
“Father.” I bow my head with deference. “It seems like a lovely eve for a garden party.”
His gaze moves over me once, slow, assessing.
“Do not embarrass me tonight.”
Not even a pretense of greeting. Simply that. .
“I won’t,” I say.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You misunderstand,” he replies slowly, his eyes lancing deep into my soul, “that this gathering has more import than a simple diversion?”
“I know, Father.”
His nostrils flare briefly in a rare loss of control.
“Do you? You are my heir--for now--and everything you say, do, or even think will be seized upon and picked apart by every person here, from the highest to the lowest.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You must not be found wanting. I have already buried three sons before you. I have no compunctions about burying a fourth.”
I nod, accepting his threat for what it is--sincere, but nothing to panic about. I’ve lived under that threat since my brothers died.
