My tailbone still ached from training, and she’d been snickering about it ever since we left the courtyard.

"I’m just saying,” Abigail began with a little singsong hum, “Demetrius is *fine*. Like, can-snap-a-spear-over-his-thigh fine.”

“Don’t start,” I groaned.

“But it’s true! He’s so *tall*, he has that quiet, dangerous thing going on, and gods—*those arms*?” She fanned herself. “You could cut diamonds on those forearms. And I just *know* his back looks like a damn sculpture. Like a *murdery angel carved by horny nuns.*”

I wheezed. “Abigail!”

“What?” she giggled. “And don’t get me *started* on his voice. Rough. Low. Like gravel wrapped in sex and dipped in battle trauma.”

“Oh my gods, *please*,” I gagged loudly.

Abigail laughed even harder. “You’re just jealous I thought of it first.”

“Jealous?” I shot her a look. “He literally slammed me into the dirt this morning. Repeatedly.”

“Yeah, and I bet you’re still thinking about it.”

I smacked her arm lightly, and she yelped in delight. “Okay, okay, I’m done—kind of. But seriously, Destiny, how come you never talk about men? Or marriage? Or *sex*?” She gave me a squint-eyed glance. “Don’t you ever think about it?”

“I think,” I said, brushing dust off my sleeve, “that men tend to get in the way of everything that *actually* matters.”

“Oof,” she winced. “Straight to the balls.”

“It’s true,” I said with a shrug. “People like Kail hate that I want more than a crown and a corset. They want a wife, not a warrior.”

“Yeah, but you’re *you*,” Abigail said with a grin. “You could probably marry *and* stab ogres. At the same time.”

“Not if the husband’s getting jealous of the sword.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s not like you’re marrying Kail right now..."

"I guess..." I muttered.

Just as we turned the corner near the grand staircase, angry voices echoed from above. Sharp. Panicked. Someone was yelling.

Abigail and I exchanged a glance before sprinting up the steps, skirts hiked and boots thudding.

At the top of the third floor, we stopped dead.

Ivy.

My sister stood near a spilled goblet of red wine, its stain bleeding across the marble like a wound. A maid, barely older than me, was trembling—wide-eyed and clutching a cloth. Ivy loomed over her like a queen of wrath, eyes blazing, hand raised.

“Stupid girl!” Ivy shouted. “Do you know how much that goblet cost?! This floor is imported from Valekia! You’ve *ruined it!*”

The maid stammered, trying to speak.

Ivy lifted her hand higher—then—

I grabbed her wrist.

“Touch her,” I said, “and I swear, you’ll regret it.”

Ivy’s head snapped toward me, fury dancing behind her lashes. “She *spilled* it! Look at this mess! She *deserves*—”

“She’s human, not a rug,” I snapped.

Abigail stepped forward, arms folded. “And even rugs don’t deserve to be slapped.”

The maid, seizing the opportunity, squeaked out a thank you and *bolted* like her life depended on it. Smart girl.

Ivy wrenched her arm from my grip and fumed. “Ugh! Why do you *always* have to ruin everything?!”

“Because you treat people like shit,” I said plainly.

She huffed, turned on her heel, and stomped away, heels clacking in sharp, rage-filled rhythms.

As soon as she was gone, Abigail let out a breath and gave me a sideways smile. “Well... that wasn’t *not* entertaining.”

“I swear, if she ever *does* become queen, I’m moving to the fucking woods.”

We were still laughing when we heard it—a loud *blast* of a bugle from outside the castle walls.

Abigail froze mid-chuckle. “Uh-oh. Trumpets never mean anything relaxing.”

We dashed to the nearest balcony overlooking the courtyard.

Below, King Lurchester stood tall in his regal black and gold, arms open in a stiff greeting toward a group of approaching riders.

At the front of them was a man in white robes, a polished silver sigil of the Holy Order shining on his chest. The priest of the Holy Knights. Behind him, flanked by several mounted guards, was a tall, silver-haired figure in ivory armor, his face unreadable.

General White.

And he wasn’t looking at the King.

He was looking straight at *me*.

I swallowed.

Abigail narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like that man came here with a ring, a sword, and a coffin?”

“Because,” I murmured, as General White dismounted and began walking toward the castle doors, “this isn’t a visit.”

“It’s a fucking *proposal*.”

Abigail grabbed my hand, squeezing tight.

“Oh Destiny,” she whispered, “we *really* should’ve stayed in the woods.”