He lifts the glass intended for me. It’s nothing more than a suspicion. Daddy would like my instincts. Antonio would approve, too. This is not one of the faces I was told to trust. Emerson might be the Reach through and through. We might both sip our drinks, talk quietly for a few minutes, and move on without anything happening. All I know is the unsettled feeling in my chest and the disapproval of someone I was told to trust.

Lifting my stolen glass, I offer a toast. “To standing tall.”

He echoes the phrase and clinks his glass to mine. We both drink. It’s actually not poorly made. The taste dances a little too quickly back and forth—but there’s the trademark revolving nature that the drink derives its name from. I keep both eyes carefully locked on his.

“So,” he says. “How are you liking this pisshole?”

I can’t help laughing. “It doesn’t suit me. I feel like I’ve bumped shoulders with every single person who lives here in the past two days. Who could stand being this trapped?”

Emerson nods. “No farms. No ranges. No manors set on hilltops. It takes getting used to.”

I tilt back my drink again and take a healthy measure. He does the same.

“I’ll pass on getting used to it,” I reply. “I’m here for the ceremonies. Nothing else. Get me back in the open. Give me a bright sky. Give me enough desert to ride all day.”

“Spoken like a true son of the Reach.”

It doesn’t seem like he’s showing any signs of being poisoned at first. His hands look steady. His eyes look focused. But I finally note the glaze of sweat coating his upper lip. It is warm in here. I’m sweating enough for the both of us, but he came over without a speck on him. This time when I take a sip, he doesn’t match me. The veins along his neck have started to rise.

His eyes flick briefly down to my glass.

“What was it?” I ask.

He clears his throat. A rattling noise. “Pardon?”

“In the drink,” I reply. “What kind of poison did you use?”

I watch as the substance digs its claws into him. He’s feeling it now. Suspicion bleeds into outright panic. His eyes dart to the left—I follow his gaze but can’t find the confidant he’s looking for—and then he pinches both eyes shut in pain. It’s a pathetic sight.

“A life of service and you’ll end it like this?” I ask quietly. “What a shame. Only the Ashlords use poison. So you’ll die serving them, using their methods, drinking their poison. I can only imagine how much money they offered. Thanks for the drink.”