I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I saw my father again, but his face hadn’t melted into a grotesque imitation of the snarl Rodric often wore. He was still the man I’d grown up with. A man who did cruel things. A man who’d murdered my mother out of his own fear of weakness. A fear he’d instilled so deep in me.

You could tell by his gait he didn’t consider himself like these people. He walked with his shoulders thrown back as if the pounding sun didn’t beat against him. He heaved himself onto the edge of the well. It was the same well I’d fallen into not days before.

He shook back his hair. The crown atop his head gleamed as he surveyed the crowd. The key he used to draw back the tigers’ chains was in full view and weighed heavily around his neck. No one here would know what the key was for. But I did, and it was a stark reminder of what the Desert Boys would face if they got caught.

Everyone went silent.

Instinctively, my hand went to my sword hilt.

My father had taken up the same exact position, a constant reminder of both his skill and power. I released my grip and clenched my hands into fists instead, refusing to mimic him, to do anything like him ever again.

“My people,” he began, “as you’ve heard, water rations have been cut to half a bucket a day.”

Shouts went up from the crowd.

He waited for them to quiet before he continued. “You have only the Desert Boys to blame for this. They nearly drained this well.” He gestured to his feet. “There’s barely enough left for anyone.”

“Lies,” someone called out from the crowd.

My father straightened. “Bring him.” My father motioned to two soldiers.

The man tried to fight back. A woman clung to him, pleading with the soldiers not to take him, but they wrestled him forward and made him kneel before the king. I tried to push ahead, to get closer. But the crowd had closed ranks, as though by blending together it would be harder to pick out individuals.

My father beckoned the man to rise. “Take a look for yourself. Tell me if you see any water in here.”

The man stood, casting wary glances at the crowd behind him. He took tentative steps closer to the well and peered in.

“Tell them what you see,” my father said.

The man turned back to the crowd. “There’s . . . there’s nothing! No water as far down as the eye can see.”

My father held up his arms as if that proved his point.

The crowd let out a roar. They threw their fists into the air and cried for water despite what the man said. My father ignored them, and with a flick of his wrist he sent the man back to the crowd.

It took me a moment to wonder why he hadn’t killed the man outright for calling him a liar. But it was because he was playing his role of the fair king. The good king. The one they needed. Oh, he’d deal out justice, but it was in the form of the arena. So it was never him punishing the people. It was the tigers. It was their own choices.