But I’m not going to disappear. And I don’t want to keep my head down.

Instead, I’m going to give Vaughn a glimpse of who I really am—and show him exactly who I’m not.

With my heart thundering through my chest and my throat tight, I answer him—and anyone else sitting at this table who thinks as he does.

“You’re a bigot and a bully, Schaefer. You insult me because you think you know what I’m capable of, but you don’t. I must make you nervous, though, for you to expose your insecurities about your odds of success in the tournament.”

“My insecurities?” Vaughn growls, halfway to his feet.

“Yes,” I bite out. “And your carelessness. You’ve just questioned, in public, the judgment of the Scion of Arthur himself by suggesting that he brought his Page forth without good reason.” I grin and look Vaughn directly in the eye. “Our future king does not owe you an explanation, and behaving as though he does displays insubordination, disloyalty, and fear. Not power. Not strength. In fact, I pity the Scion who chooses you as their Squire. That is, if you get chosen at all.”

A beat of silence—then Vaughn launches himself over the table. Carson catches him before he reaches me, just as I thought he would. Vaughn strains as Carson whispers in his ear. The curious gazes of his allies turn from me to him, as I’d hoped they would, and a dark flush consumes his features.

A heartbeat passes. Two. And Vaughn drops to his seat, violence in his eyes. “Not over, Matthews.”

No, it’s not. If Vaughn wasn’t my enemy before, he is now.

But right now, I just can’t bring myself to care.

Whitty breaks the silence, his voice casual as he asks, “Would ya pass the Brussels sprouts, Ainsley?”

Ainsley scowls and passes the bowl across my chest without saying “Excuse me.” Conversation resumes around us, and dinner starts up again, but underneath the table my hands are trembling.

A light smattering of sparks falls across the bridge of my nose and cheeks. Across the room, no one at the bustling, loud, laughing Scion table has noticed what just occurred on our side of the room. No one except Selwyn Kane. The Kingsmage sits with his chin in hand, gazing at me with a contemplative expression. Like he’d been watching—and listening—to the entire exchange with Vaughn. Could he have heard us through all of the chatter and clinking silverware?

Greer surprises me by grabbing the steak tongs, then my plate. “Do you eat beef?”

“Yes.” I nod, still dazed. “Why are you being so nice to me?”