The banquet kind of, well, limped forward. No one was really eating anymore after the prince’s words trailed off into nothing. Trays of venison sat cooling, grease turning white and sticky, while goblets of gold dripped condensation like they’d been sweating harder than the servants. Every noble’s eyes flicked—me, the prince, the shadows—then back again. Over and over.
Arabella, porcelain-perfect as always, rose to her feet. She didn’t even blink. “My friends,” she said, her voice light, too light, “His Highness requires rest. Let us not mar this evening with worry—tonight, we celebrate his recovery.”
Her goblet rose. A hundred others followed, because that’s what they always do.
I lifted mine too, though every part of me screamed that this toast was not what it pretended to be. At the
