My father’s eyes held no warmth as I entered. It was a far cry from my first fight, when he’d walked down the aisle with me—showing me off to everyone when I’d won. He’d draped his arm over my shoulder and smiled widely, beaming down at me. I’d felt like I was already queen.

But now he stood stoically. I thought he’d at least smile, at least pretend to be pleased despite what happened.

I managed to throw my shoulders back and keep my head high, but his earlier words still had me on edge. He hadn’t punished me outright, as I had expected; what he’d done was far worse. He’d left me to my own imagination—to wonder who my next opponent would be if he really didn’t think I was the desert’s choice. Every step closer to him suddenly felt like I was walking through Scorpion Hill, waiting for an attack to come.

All the extra bodies packed along the tables formed an aisle leading to the dais where my father waited. The bracelets worn by the married noblewomen clinked together as they cheered my entrance.

I walked down the aisle, stopping at every person who lined the way. All lowered their cup as I approached, and I took one sip from each. It was an old tradition that began when Tamlin made it across the desert and needed water so he could regain enough of his voice to speak with the then king. Nobles had offered him a sip of water from their glass as he made his way down the main hall toward the king’s dais.

It had become a ritual used to reward champions and heroes.

Only what was in the cups now wasn’t water. It was a spicy mead that burned my throat. I pressed my mouth against each rim, letting the liquid barely touch my lips before I moved on.

By the time I reached the dais, my head pounded and my leg throbbed, and they weren’t even courteous enough to do so in unison. I bowed to my father and took my seat next to him.

His throne, shaped like a giant scorpion, loomed large over me as he took his seat. He rested his hands on the scorpion’s claws while the creature’s tail curved behind his back, leaving the stinger to rest above his head as if the desert itself was pointing to him, anointing him its king. The throne had been made for Tamlin and was just another reminder of what I’d yet to accomplish.

Servants carrying platters arrived the moment my father touched his chair. Two servants carried in a platter bearing heaps of three-headed lizards. My father scooped several onto his plate. Even though you could only eat the head with the purple tongue, my father insisted they be served whole. Although I didn’t blame him. More than one unruly noble had died from being served a head with a purple tongue cleverly tacked in where the green or red tongue had once been.