Keir chuckled. “If any big bad monster’s going to eat you, it’ll be me. And tonight I’m not really craving urine-soaked queen.” He slid off the log to the ground and lounged back against the wood, arms crossed. When I still stared, he jostled my chain, pointed to the ground, and ordered, “Sleep.”
I dropped down instantly and snapped my eyes shut, curling into myself as tightly as I could.
Keir sighed softly. After a beat, I cracked one eye back open. Keir remained awake, gaze never straying from that empty seat Alarik was meant to occupy.
Not once did he close his eyes. I know because I didn’t, either.
SEVENAMUNET
When I was around five years old—just before I’d learned Shaya was my real father, just before I’d lit my first candle in his honor—the king had taken me to the Ketopolis Market for the first time. He’d carried me on his shoulders and pointed out each stall to me.
The market had everything. Textiles in all different colors, which were strung up between booths over our heads, created one long, consistent canopy down the aisle. Exotic foods from all over the empire, filling the narrow aisles with a heady mixture of smells. Sugary sweets, seasoned meats, all of it cut through by the bitterness of incense being sold with sculptures and paintings of the Seven Monarchs. The stalls were a never-ending strip of shouting merchants and happy customers.
“Look!” I pointed, feet kicking with excitement beneath my father’s grip. “Baklawa!”
“Aye, aye, little one.” He veered sharply in the direction of the stall as if he were a ship and I the captain. I used to love when he did that.
The merchant took one look at Father, and her eyes lit up. There were portraits of Father all over Ashorah, but even without them, it would have been easy to deduce the king’s identity, what with his extravagant robes made of the finest linens stitched through withdiamonds, and the massive crown atop his head. “How may I serve you, my king?”
“Two squares of baklawa.”
“Of course, my king.” The merchant produced the dessert quickly, and Father steered us toward a nearby bench. “Careful,” he warned as he offered me both pieces of the pastry. “It’s messy.”
Heedless of his warning, I dove right in. The thin filo pastry flaked all over my lap, but I didn’t care. I’d always adored baklawa, but I’d never had anythatdelicious. Sweet with just a hint of savory from the almonds in its center, the crust practically melting in my mouth.
Father chuckled at my expression. “Good?”
“So good! The best baklawa I’ve ever tasted!”
“Do you think so?”
I nodded enthusiastically, honey making my lips sticky.
Father looked at the merchant. She was watching us with a soft smile from the stall but quickly straightened under the king’s gaze and scurried to his side. “Was there something else you needed, my king?”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nena, my king.”
“Can you bake anything else, Nena?”
“Yes, my king. My family owns a restaurant a few blocks over. We bake and cook most dishes.”
“Can your restaurant manage without you?”
Her brows furrowed. “No, my king.”
Father considered her, the sunlight catching in the jewels of his crown. “And if you were to earn double the wages, would it be able to spare you then?”
The merchant’s eyes flew wide. “I… yes.”
“Excellent. You are the new chef of Khada Palace, Nena.”
The merchant’s eyes widened. She lowered into a stunned curtsy. “Th-thank you, my king.”
I hardly paid attention to her shock, preoccupied with my own. I gasped hard and gazed up at my father with pure delight. “Really, Baba?”
He smiled warmly and stroked my hair, which had yet to be shorn. “You deserve to be happy, little one.” A sheen coated his green eyes.
