Lila
I had never been so aware of my posture in my life.
Back straight. Chin lifted. Hands folded neatly in my lap. Every breath I took in the training chamber felt rehearsed—like if I inhaled too deeply or blinked too slowly, someone would find fault in it.
They were watching. All of them.
The former candidates who hadn’t left the palace hovered in a semicircle near the back wall, draped in silk and smugness. A few nobles lounged at the edges of the room under the pretense of court interest, but it was clear what they were really here for: bloodsport, disguised as my etiquette lessons.
And at the center of it all stood Jackson.
His robes were crisp and regulation-perfect, his tone even, his expression unreadable. He held a leather-bound journal like it was a gavel and addressed t
