CAYDEN
Cayden wakes to a thunderous duo: a series of staccato knocks against his bedroom door rouses him into a wicked hangover. The two empty jugs of wine winking at him from the mess of a table jog his memory of the night before: the Bell Run, the girl, their wager.
Her victory.
Ugh, he thinks, eyeing the buzzing, spoiled meat. It’ll take ages to get the flies out.
Another series of knocks raps through the near-silence.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Cayden yells, his voice as groggy as he feels. He blindly gropes for a crystal goblet of water, finds one, and swallows it down. “Give me a goddamn second.”
“King Arlo requires your presence, Your Highness,” a man—Cayden recognizes him as his father’s valet—calls from behind the door. “In the throne room, in half an hour.”
Cayden, in the m
