I scrunch my eyes as the steps approach but realize I don’t hear the sounds of carelessly dropped trays of food. Instead, the footsteps stop outside my cell, and my eyes peel open.

“I’ve been told you’ve been making quite the ruckus,” comes a deep voice.

There stands Cyan, the Alluvion King. I remember during the Sun Queen ball when he sat on his glass throne in an insouciant pose, possibly wishing he was anywhere but that over-the-top party masquerading as a glittering backdrop for the Tributes’ deaths.

That made two of us. Three if you count Nadir.

His skin is so pale it’s nearly blue, and a long fall of indigo hair covers his bare, sculpted shoulders. He wears nothing on his top half, showing off the planes of a chiseled stomach and chest, along with fitted shorts made of thin white material clinging to his thick thighs. Dark blue eyes peer at me with a mixture of curiosity and, maybe, a touch of amusement.

“Your Majesty,” I say, pushing the tangle of hair from my face. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

I use the wall as leverage as I push myself to stand. I’ve barely slept or eaten for days, and my limbs tremble with hollow exhaustion.

“So you’ve made clear,” Cyan says as he scans me from head to toe. Next to him is the same female guard who threw me in here, standing curiously close to her king while giving me that same scathing look. “Please call me Cyan.”

“Why?” I ask, instantly on alert at this show of camaraderie.

“Did you not tell my guards that you are Serce’s granddaughter?”

The female guard scowls and then spits on the floor, her eyes darkening with rage. I frown at her before swinging my gaze to Cyan.

“I did. I was hoping that would get your attention.”

“So it’s true?” Cyan asks.

“It’s true—” interrupts the female guard, her voice laced with poison. “Look at her.”

Cyan raises a hand. “Linden, please. Allow the girl to speak.”

Linden bristles, sealing her lips shut like they’re rusted hinges, but not before she pins me with another caustic look that attempts to melt me into the floor. I make a mental note to keep my distance.

“I am Serce’s granddaughter,” I say and hold my breath.

Cyan squints, attempting to assess me through the dimness of the dungeon. Maybe he should consider adding a few more lights. Perhaps a pallet to sleep on and food that doesn’t taste like sweaty socks spiced with rotting garbage.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t see it,” he says, lifting a hand to scratch his chin.

“Excuse me?” I reply.

“I see your grandfather,” he says, and that makes me blink.