Lunch in the courtyard was supposed to be a relief—a brief, sunlit escape from the insane wedlock rivalry and chivalric butt-kicking of the morning’s training. Instead, it felt like stepping into a firestorm.

Abigail slid onto the bench beside me, her cheeks flushed and eyes glittering. “Destiny,” she whispered, leaning in so close I could feel the perfume of her breath, “can we talk about how insanely hot Sir Demetrius is?”

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks heated anyway. Across the table, Demetrius himself sat next to Abigail, one elbow casually draped over the back of her seat. He was dressed in a simple white shirt now—sleeves rolled up, collar open—and those forearms alone could’ve launched a thousand ships.

Abigail cleared her throat dramatically. “I mean—look at him. Biceps like coiled steel, that jawline… I’d let him sword-whip me any day.”

Demetrius glanced over with a half-smile, dark eyes flicking from Abigail to me, as if daring me to object.

I muttered under my breath, “Gross.”

Abigail pinched my arm. “Stop being such a prude. Even Ivy would agree he’s hotter than a forge in July.”

Just then, Ivy swept in, dripping in scandal—literally, her gown so low-cut and slit-high it should’ve been banned in three kingdoms. She slid onto the bench opposite Demetrius and pouted. “Mind if I join?” she cooed, batting her lashes. “I could use some heroic company.”

Demetrius didn’t so much as blink at her. Instead, he leaned forward toward me, voice low enough that only I could hear:
“You survived yesterday’s training. You pushed through every damn feint I threw at you—faster, stronger, smarter. Remind me again why I’m not supposed to think you’re the most dangerous woman I’ve ever faced?”

My heart slammed so hard I thought it might break ribs. Ivy’s insult-flirting bounced off him like rain off a stone wall. But for me… that compliment was hotter than midday steel.

Ivy huffed, sliding off the bench and stalking away to glare at the ducks waddling by. Abigail gave me a triumphant wink.

We ate in a charged silence after that—roast beef sandwiches, crisp apples, and Abigail’s stolen pastry that melted into sticky sweetness. Demetrius barely touched his food, eyes tracking me like a hawk.

At last, I stood. “I’ll take these dishes in,” I said, scooping up the wooden platters.

The kitchen corridor was cool and dim, a welcome change from the glaring sun. I balanced the plates, my mind still fizzing with Demetrius’s words. Around the corner lay the double doors to the kitchens—but halfway there, I paused.

Two maids, whispering behind a stone pillar, froze when they saw me. Mistake number one.

“I heard,” the taller one said, voice trembling, “that years ago, Lady Lurchester, Destiny's mother, wasn’t sick at all.”

The shorter maid held up a finger. “Aye. It was Uncle Varn. He hired one of the maids to slip poison into the King’s goblet. But she got the wrong cup.” Her voice cracked like ice. “She killed the Queen instead.”

My blood turned to ice. Every step forward felt like wading into a storm.

“Both the King and Varn adored her,” the first maid went on. “When she chose the throne over them… Varn snapped. He… he wanted her to love him back. So he tried to poison King Lurchester. Now that, maid's in the dungeon. When I served her food, she told me that Uncle Varn is now a pirate, sailing the Emerald Green Seas and—”

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. The maids scattered at the sound of my heavy boots.

I nearly dropped the plates, but forced myself to carry them to the kitchen door. Inside, cooks glanced up as I set them down. I didn’t wait for thanks. I fled back toward the courtyard, heart hammering like war drums.

Abi was still at the table, fanning herself with a napkin. “Everything okay?” she asked, peering worriedly at me.

“I—” I started, then cut myself off. Ivy, now back and fiddling with her hem, caught my eye across the table.

“Tell me,” I said, voice low but fierce. “Is it true? Did Uncle Varn kill Mother?”

Ivy’s eyes went wide—just for a moment—then she turned her face away. “You shouldn’t have heard that,” she whispered.

I stood so abruptly my chair scraped across the stone. “Answer me!”

She hesitated, trembling. The confession hung in the air like a poisoned chalice.

When she didn’t speak, I knew.

My mother’s saintly death, my father’s unwavering tale of “a sudden fever”—all lies.

My vision blurred. I sank onto the bench, mind racing.

Abi slid beside me, hand on my shoulder. “Destiny—”

But I was already gone. Inside, I felt a furnace ignite—a need for blood, for truth, for justice that would burn until someone paid.