He stared deeply at Laya’s face. What he saw there seemed to distract him, because he kept staring, as if any rational counsel he wished to give her had disappeared from his head. Laya stared back. She couldn’t help herself. The Orfelian brought up a good point. Hours later, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. No one had ever challenged her like that before, questioning the kind of queen she wanted to be instead of telling her how to be one. Ariel was the first to ask and the first to listen. Not once did he presume to know her answers before she uttered them. He showed her ways of contemplating Maynara⁠—and the rest of the world⁠—that Laya had never considered before. Their conversations enthralled her. Just thinking about their last writing lesson rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

For the first time, she didn’t care what had brought Ariel Sauros to Maynara. Whatever his business, she hoped it would keep him in the palace a while longer. Friendship was not the right word to describe the bond she sensed budding between them. All she knew was that she liked him. After the feast days ended and the capital quieted once more, she looked forward to having him around.

In the middle of the great hall, Laya continued to mull over Ariel’s question as she poured herself another glass of wine. The alcohol would do little to cool the heat rising in her cheeks, but she needed something to do with her hands. As she took a sip, her older sister leaned over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Bulan asked. “We should join Mother. The ceremony is about to begin.”

She glared at her. “I doubt that. We’re one datu short, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Bulan let out a sharp sigh. They had yet to make amends after the tournament. Although Laya was not yet ready to forgive her for what she’d done to Luntok, a day of distance had allowed her anger to ebb into dull annoyance.

“That woman truly has no shame,” Bulan said. “I don’t suppose Luntok mentioned anything to you about being late.”

Laya scowled. “I haven’t seen Luntok since you slashed open his back,” she lied. Images flashed of the previous night. His lips on her collarbone, her neck. She had run her fingers over his skin, which was warm against hers and smooth as glass⁠—

Smooth. His back had been smooth, no broken skin or scar tissue, as if Bulan’s blade hadn’t touched him at all. She had been too swept away by his romantic pleas to notice. Healers attended to his wounds after the tournament, but Laya had seen how much of his blood had splattered the platform. Their ointments and enchantments would not have been potent enough to stitch him up overnight.