The liquid tasted bitter at first, then floral, then something stranger. Heat moved through her body in a slow, even wave. Not intoxicating. Clarifying. Her skin felt suddenly too awake. The scrape of silk against her ribs. The dryness of her mouth. The faint pulse in her hand. Everything sharpened.
Brinna swallowed hard after drinking hers. Tavi muttered, “Wonderful.”
Halvine ignored her.
“The banquet will proceed in order of selection. Lady Sabine first.”
Of course.
Sabine set the empty vial down and felt the mark pulse once under her skin, warm and low, like anticipation.
The banquet hall glowed.
Not warmly. Hungrily.
Candles burned in ranks along the walls and in high candelabras down the center of the room, throwing amber light across crimson cloth, gold plate, polished crystal, and platters loaded with enough food to shame a harvest feast. Roasted birds lacquered to a dark shine. Bread glazed with butter and herbs. Fruit split open to show jeweled flesh. Honey cakes. Spiced wine. Silver bowls of cream. The scent hit her the moment she crossed the threshold and lodged hard under her ribs.
After the fast, it was almost unbearable.
That was the point.
The marked brides were seated alone at a long central table. The galleries around them were full. Nobles, clergy, council members, court women, and the same soft-faced men who always seemed most interested when something humiliating was called sacred.
Sabine took her seat.
Her pulse had already started climbing.
At the far dais, Lucien sat at the high table in formal black, one hand resting loosely near his cup. He did not look at her.
She felt him anyway.
The bond stirred at once, a low warm current through her palm, as if it recognized the room had become more dangerous because he was in it and she wanted him.
A priest began speaking blessings over the feast.
Sabine barely heard him.
Servants came in silence. Plates were set down. Cups poured. Nothing touched yet. Everything offered. Everything waiting.
She watched.
A small silver cup appeared at each place.
Drink first.
Sabine lifted hers and swallowed. The wine was dark and spiced and alive with whatever had been in the vial earlier. Heat spread through her chest and lower, making hunger suddenly less simple than food.
The first course followed. Thin slices of meat over dark bread, pears, mustard seeds, bitter greens. The scent made her stomach clench.
She ate slowly. Carefully. Never the first to reach. Never the last. Yselle did the same. Tavi ate like a woman refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her starve prettily. Brinna looked close to shaking apart.
Then the hall began testing.
A councilman offered bread to one bride before custom permitted it. She took it and earned a temple clerk’s narrowed look.
A lady from the upper gallery sent sugared figs down to another girl as a gesture of “favor.” Accepting them meant something. Refusing them meant something else.
The room was a web. Every hand extended carried rank. Every refusal carried consequence.
