He looks even paler today than he did at the game. His movements are slow, and through our bond, I feel a rush of nausea roiling through him.

Raina’s work, no doubt, and done purposefully for an evening when she knows he must put on a show of strength. I force myself to keep my emotions even, my heartbeat steady. As always, I’m exhausted. After I stirred awake from my dream with Red, I never fell back asleep. I paced and paced until morning finally arrived, our kiss still burning on my lips.

As I take a seat beside Constantine, I expect him to cast me a brief glance, but he doesn’t. He knows I’m waiting for his reaction to the events in the arena, dreading his orders to his soldiers to hurt my mother, but to punish me, he stays quiet. Nothing I did yesterday seems to have troubled him. So I tighten my lips and look away, unwilling to let him feel my unease.

Beside me is seated Raina, the Chief Architect. I look at her occasionally, but she doesn’t seem to mind my presence, sipping instead on her wine and searching the audience with her careful gaze. Down below, Mayor Elland is mingling with some people who must be Karensan nobles, her head thrown back in a laugh. She seems comfortable, with a beautiful young woman on her arm, and chats away as if she’d had the most wonderful day yesterday at the games.

Finally, as the sky turns into shades of deeper purple and blue and the public gets louder, I see the Chief Architect turn her face slightly toward mine. On my left, Constantine laughs at something Caitoman tells him.

His brother smiles back, then lifts his glass. He raises his voice. “A toast,” he calls out.

I don’t actually understand the Karenese word he uses, but his gesture lets me infer it. He rises to his feet, and as I stare up at him, he holds the glass out to the gathered audience and then toward the Premier. Everyone quiets to hear his words.

“To my brother’s successes,” he says, “on the first eve of the summer solstice and every eve after, and for carrying forward our Infinite Destiny for all the years you’ll live.”

The crowd cheers, following him in chanting a mantra for the Premier’s long life. But when I look out at the people gathered, I notice that not all of them repeat the chant. Some don’t glance our way.

At the table, the Architect bows her head and sips her wine. Constantine drinks. So does Caitoman.

Everything in me wants to defy the toast, but I lift my glass too, then tilt my head back and take a quick swig. The liquid runs through me, warm and tingling.

The meal begins. I glance toward Constantine, but he seems unconcerned as he listens to Caitoman talk about the border states.

Something about my expression must catch Caitoman’s interest, because abruptly the General pauses in his conversation to give me a barbed smile. “Your Skyhunter looks ill today,” he says to his brother. He pushes his chair slightly back, then leans toward me. “Does such rich food not sit well with you?”