The place was wide open—high-ceilinged but dark, all warm black walls and gray stone floors. It was old, too, in a way that settled into my bones and gave weight to the air.
Amid all those shadows, Kyven gleamed, as fresh and bright as a copper penny.
He ordered two ales and a plate of fruit. The waitress set everything on his half of the table, leaning in so far her bosom nearly spilled into his face.
Not that he noticed. He pinned me with a look, then set to peeling an apple in one continuous spiral. I tracked the progress of his paring knife, wondering if I should have done something to keep him from having a blade.
But I didn’t actually feel threatened. Not with Kyven studying me like he was paying attention with his whole self. Like he could scorch away my layers with the frosty burn of his eyes.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he said.
I shifted on my stool, trying to get comfortable. All around, laughter mingled with the clink of glassware and the pungenttang of sweat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes. Your company was actually tolerable, for once.”
“Careful.” His mouth hitched. “Compliments like that are guaranteed to go to my head.”
I scoffed and guzzled my ale. “Everythinggoes to your head. Compliments, insults, doesn’t even matter.”
“Hmm. You may have a point.”
Great. There he went with thehmms again. I’d learned to be wary of them, because Kyven usually chased them into meatier territory, drawing me into a conversation that sounded light on the surface, but wasn’t.
Sure enough, he leaned in, his elbows planted on the table. “There’s nothing quite like it, is there? The theatre. It’s possibility in its rawest form.”
I grimaced. A philosophical discussion was the last thing I needed right now. “I have no idea what that means.”
His knife circumnavigated the apple. “Itmeansthat inside that auditorium, there’re no rules. I'm not a prince. You’re not a keymistress. The curtain goes up and we’re free to become pirates, if we like. Or rivals, or lovers, or friends. In there, we can be whatever we want. Write any story we wish.”
My skin tingled. Shit. I hated that this angle interested me. “And you...enjoy that? That freedom?”
“Freedom, yes.” His face lit up. “That’s the word. Theatre isn’t just possibility, it’s freedom, in its purest form. Because every time I go, I’m reminded that I can reinvent myself, just like those players do on stage.”
I pondered that. Huh. “And what would you like to become, exactly?”
“Well.” His smile took on a mysterious edge. “That depends on the day. On my mood. Which changes rather frequently, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I drained my ale to give myself time to think. I wouldn’t argue his capriciousness—he habitually flitted from one thing to the next. But his flightiness had a...steady quality, almost. He was predictably unpredictable, and always cheerful, always upbeat.
Which, all this time, I’d assumed was manufactured. But his expression, inside that theatre...
“And you, lioness? Who would you be, if you could reinvent yourself?”
My musings evaporated as his question made my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. Funny—in some ways, Icouldreinvent myself, but the dagger’s gifts ended at the surface. That was the irony, I supposed. I could alter my face all I liked, but no amount of magic changed what lay beneath. None of my adjustments made me less...me.
Now words flooded my throat. Honest ones. Goddess, I shouldn’t have drained that mug so quickly.
Maybe another drink would reinstate my sanity. I waved the waitress down.
But when the second mug arrived, sipping from it only lubricated my thoughts. “If I could’ve been anyone,” I said slowly, “...I think I would’ve liked to be good, like Amryssa. Worthy.”
A crease formed between Kyven’s brows. “Worthy? Why in Hyperion’s name would you think you aren’t?”
“Well, it’s like you said. Most people are selfish. Me included.”
His knife paused mid-swipe. The now-lengthy peel trailed onto the table, its ruby richness lurid in his hands. “Would you like to know what I see, when I look at you?”
I leaned in. “No.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m going to tell you anyway, you stubborn woman. Because someone needs to inform you you’re absolutely worthy. Of course you are. You’re ferocious, in fact.Most people shy away from that side of themselves, but you? You’re tyrannical and not the least bit sorry about it. Not when it comes to the seneschal’s daughter, and not when it comes to your loyalty. Which means you take a hangnail more seriously than I take a knife to the throat, but that single-mindedness is your greatest strength. It means you can be trusted. Relied upon. You don’t change your mind along with your clothes. You’re ironclad, and if that’s not the single rarest and most precious quality a person can have, I don’t know what is.”
