“I’ll do my best.”
Sarai’s laugh is still hanging in the air when the knock comes. Not a polite tap. A measured rhythm—like someone trained in etiquette but absolutely certain of their rank. Sarai goes still. It’s small—barely a pause—but I feel it. The quiet snap from warmth to composure. Her shoulders reset. Her eyes cool.
And just like that, the fire between us vanishes.
She rises smoothly, dusting nonexistent lint from her sleeve. “Stay seated. They can’t—just—” she
“What if it’s coffee?” I’m trying for levity, but her look says don’t. Not unkind, but firm. I wonder if she would be punished for speaking freely. Caz said I wasn’t a prisoner, I wouldn’t be harmed, but that was before the lewd remarks in the square. And before I learned that my new friend Sarai doesn’t just work at the palace, make a living wage, and go home. She’s stuck.
A moment later, the door opens—without her touching it. Magic again. I’m trying not to be impressed, but this place really commits to the drama. A Daemari steps through.
He’s tall and pale, with spiral tattoos crawling up his neck and a uniform so crisp it might bite. There’s a scroll in one hand and a general sense of disdain in the other.
“Human,” he says, not looking at me. “You are summoned to the hall.”
“Neat,” I reply, slowly standing. “Is this a dinner thing or another infuriating round of twenty-questions-no-answers?”
He blinks. Briefly. Then ignores me entirely and sets the scroll on the table. Sarai’s eyes are carefully blank. I don’t like it. He leaves without another word. The door clicks closed behind him, soft as a warning. I wait until I’m sure he’s gone.
Then I turn to Sarai, lowering my voice. “So… that wasn’t ominous at all.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she picks up the scroll and unrolls it. Her eyes scan the elegant ink, and I see the faintest crease form between her brows.
“What is it?”
“A gathering,” she says carefully. “The court will observe the contenders for the Emberbrand.”
Contenders.
As in plural.
As in not me.
“Oh,” I say, deadpan. “Good. I love group humiliation. Really builds character.”
Sarai finally looks at me. Something’s different in her eyes now. Not fear. But concern. Something tight.
“I’ll help you dress,” she says, already moving to the wardrobe. “It matters.” She adds before I can protest.
That unsettles me more than anything else so far. Not because I care about clothing, but because she does. And because I think she doesn’t want me to ask why. As she pulls rich fabric from the closet, I glance toward the bed where we were sitting only minutes ago, laughing about gods with the temperament of drama queens and empires built on envy.
Now it feels far away, like the air in the room shifted while I wasn’t looking. I almost forgot that none of this is normal, possibly even real.
Sarai sets out a deep red garment with delicate embroidery and flame-kissed trim.
“Is this one of those ‘make a good impression or die’ things?” I ask, only half-joking.
She smooths the fabric, not meeting my eyes.
I sigh. “Right. Got it. Pageant rules.”
I’ve worn a lot of things I hated—uniforms, lab coats, a bridesmaid dress that looked like it was on a personal mission to wash me out—but this might be a new category. Aka, I want to hate it but its so goddamn gorgeous I just can’t. The dress Sarai helps me into is rich red, soft as heat, and tailored like it was made from spilled blood and good decisions. It drapes and clings in all the ways that imply power, not permission.
It also has no zippers. Because apparently, we’ve left practicality in another realm entirely. Sarai adjusts the shoulder drape with clinical precision. She hasn’t said much since the summons arrived, but her silence is full of tension she’s trying not to show. I glance toward the far wall, hoping for a mirror. There isn’t one. Of course there isn’t.
I open my mouth to ask—and before I can even form the words, the blank wall ripples and I see my reflection staring back at me.
I flinch. “Okay, nope. Still not used to that.”
