After Kat was done dancing—and Damian was done sitting and sweating in place trying to will himself to sobriety—it was the Princess’s personal time. It wasn’t until then that she requested one of the servants bring Damian a sobering potion, which he hadn’t known was a thing, but he took it gratefully. Moments after he downed the tasteless, almost-syrupy draught, his head began to clear.

  Damian groaned as a headache grabbed at his skull and held it. Kat chuckled at his expense. “I do hope you’re coming to dinner. I find your company endlessly entertaining.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Damian asked—then hastily added, “Your grace.”

  The Princess smiled. “No, I suppose you don’t. I hope you have a pleasant evening in the meantime, Damian.”

  After a moment considering a sarcastic response, Damian settled on bowing low at the waist and holding it until Kat left the room. And then... he was alone. It felt strange; being alone after being followed or directed all day. What was he supposed to do with his free time now? Research the gods? Possible.

  Kurakin had asked him to practice his swordplay. If tomorrow looked anything like today, this would probably be the only free time he had to do that. It took Damian a few minutes to navigate back to the courtyard he’d been in before, which was now occupied by a pair of Wolf Knights sparring. They completely ignored Damian, and he was fine with that as he went to grab a side-sword from the available training weapons.

  It felt a little silly walking around in a ready stance, imagining moving toward or away from an opponent and placing his feet crosswise to maintain as steady a base as possible. But Kurakin had insisted sword work wasn’t worth doing without decent footwork, so that was what he practiced. After doing that for a while, he moved on to practicing his guard, and despite Kurakin’s objections, the box analogy really helped him visualize it.

  Damian was interrupted when the [Knights] broke from their sparring and walked directly toward him, clearly seeking his attention. Breaking from his guard, he offered a shallow bow as a show of respect. Probably not strictly necessary, but he figured it couldn’t hurt.

  “We haven’t seen you around before, little pup,” one of the [Knights] said in a feminine voice. “Few have access to this courtyard. Who are you?”

  How was he supposed to answer that? Remembering his manners, he straightened. “A [Squire] attending the [Princess], Dame.”

  “Interesting,” she mused, reaching out and plucking the side-sword from Damian’s grasp. He let it happen. “And who is training you?”

  “Sir Kurakin,” Damian answered, beginning to grow uncomfortable with their proximity and sudden interest. “Since today.”

  The [Knight] who’d remained silent until this moment barked out a laugh. “In truth? We shall have to speak with him later, then—and pass along how well you’re doing for your first day.”

  “Indeed,” the man’s female counterpart agreed, handing Damian back the sword. “But pull your shoulder blades back, like so. And settle lower into your stance.”

  Damian implemented their suggestions, and they observed him a few minutes more, adding their pointers before going back to sparring. It occurred to him that he was consistently afraid of authority figures and wondered why that kept happening. In a sense, the gods were about as supreme an authority as one could find. But not everyone was like Nephret or Marduk. At least in Damian’s lived experience.

  Though plenty of people were nasty enough—like Mikhail.

  He’d made a poor judgment of his character on first meeting him, thinking him energetic and odd, but ultimately harmless and benevolent. Then he’d revealed substantial hidden claws. It occurred to Damian that Mikhail was likely cultivating that harmless persona on purpose, to put people at ease, but it still bothered him that he hadn’t seen through it in the slightest.

  Damian practiced his footwork and guard until the light began to fade from the sky. It was early evening, but not exactly late given the time of year. The practice served as a good opportunity to mull over what he’d seen today. And it felt oddly good to be practicing with a sword. Not the transcendent experience some self-proclaimed [Duelists] claimed swordplay was, but satisfying in a subtle way.

  As Damian walked back to his room, he wondered how he was supposed to know when the royal dinner was. Luckily for him, he passed a servant in the hall, asked, and was informed someone would come find him when it was time. Useful—but it made him feel pampered. They could’ve just told him a time, and he’d have made that work himself.

  It was also annoying to have an unknown amount of time to himself. He didn’t want to wander in case he was needed and they couldn’t find him, but he also didn’t want to commit to anything that would take too long. So, once he got back to his room, Damian decided to try journaling. He’d been doing it off and on for a while, more as a way to practice his writing than to actually keep notes on his life. Despite semi-consistent practice, he still felt slow. Especially now, with Kat as context. She could write at thrice his speed, in four times the languages, and still considered herself a “novice,” apparently.

  He’d only managed two and a half pages when there was a knock on his door—a servant coming to escort him to the dining room.

  When he walked into the same room he’d had lunch in, Damian froze when he realized it was just the King, a woman he recognized from the painting as the Queen, and Kat. As well as a few servants, of course. Regardless, it was a much more intimate setting than he’d been expecting. All eyes turned to him, and he quickly bowed nearly ninety degrees at the hip.

  “Rise, Damian,” the King said in a voice that wasn’t loud but carried easily through the room. “In private, you need not bow. Being honest with you, it gets exhausting.”

  “It’s good practice,” Damian muttered as he quickly walked to the seat indicated to him by the same servant who’d brought him to the room.

  The table was large enough to comfortably seat twenty, but the royal family was clustered at one end so they could sit together. At the head sat the King and Queen, and on the Queen’s left sat Kat. Damian took the seat at the King’s right hand, which was entirely too close for comfort.

  “So, this is the young man I’ve heard so much about,” the Queen said, giving Damian a cold gaze. Her face was sterner and longer than the King’s, lacking any of the smile wrinkles or overbearing brow. She also had blue eyes instead of her husband and daughter’s distinct purple. Using the painting behind the table as reference, it looked like Kat took more after her father, and her brother—whom Damian hadn’t seen and realized hadn’t even been mentioned, which struck him as odd—took more after their mother.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Damian didn’t know what to say to the Queen, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Mother, don’t kill the poor boy with your eyes,” Kat admonished. “I quite enjoy his company.”

  “Indeed?” her mother said with an arched eyebrow. “Enough to invite him into your room—alone—while in the process of seeing suitors. You must like him very much.”

  Earlier today, Damian had watched Kat entertain several dozen men of varying social skill, all trying to argue why she should sleep with them specifically. And during that entire process, she had carefully maintained a polite facade without a single slip. But her mother’s comments caused her cheeks to flush a bright crimson immediately.

  “Mother!” she exclaimed. “It was nothing untoward, my skill—”

  “Daughter,” the King cut her off in a firm but gentle voice before turning to his wife. “Let’s drop this conversation while we have a guest. Can we agree to that, dear?”

  The Queen’s lips twitched into a smile for the briefest moment. “Of course. My apologies, daughter.”

  Damian swallowed hard to try to return saliva to his increasingly dry mouth and found it was certainly insufficient. Then he noticed Kat staring at him, and when he looked at her face, she winked with her left eye, the one her parents wouldn’t be able to see. It made him feel slightly better to see Kat still felt in control enough to be playful.

  “Apology accepted, Mother,” Kat said in a light tone. “Shall we eat?”

  “Yes,” her father agreed, gesturing to summon the food from the servants.

  The meal was a tart red root vegetable Damian had never seen before, some small species of fowl, roasted parsnips, and a sweet-and-savory barley mash. This time, Damian waited for everyone at the table to tuck in before he even moved to grab his silverware. The King and Queen launched into a discussion about suitors, which Damian happily ignored as he dug into the food. It was, as expected, fantastically good.

  “Damian,” the King addressed him suddenly, snapping him to attention. “Sir Kurakin says you show exceptional potential with the blade. Tell me, is it truly your first time with one?”

  “He said that?” Damian asked.

  The King nodded earnestly.

  Damian licked his lips nervously. “Er... yes, your majesty. Outside of knives, of course.”

  “Hm... one of these days I’ll need to see you work with him, then,” Morozov mused. “It’s high praise from Kurakin.”

  Even though Damian had already guessed Kurakin was sparing with his praise, the King confirming it still made him blush. He didn’t know what to say, so he took Mikhail’s advice and kept his mouth shut. Luckily, the King’s attention turned to his daughter then.

  “And how was your day, lovely daughter of mine?”

  Kat’s face soured slightly. “Fine. The suitors were draining. Who knew everyone and their brother was interested in marrying into royalty?”

  “Indeed,” the Queen said with an amused lilt. “But Mikhail said you cut it short. In fact, he seemed quite sure you might be in need of a minder next time.”

  The Princess wore a very unbecoming scowl. “He would say that.”

  “Yes, well, he does know what he’s talking about when it comes to these matters,” the King commented in a diplomatic tone. “He explained your intent to draw interest, but if he says it will cause more frustration than interest, I would take his word for it.”

  Kat’s jaw tightened for a moment, but then she lowered her head. “Yes, Father. I’ll do better tomorrow father.”

  Damian blinked in surprise. That was it? Where was the fiery Kat who made him dance with her and teased him like a dog? The one he thought she was able to embody around her parents.

  “I know you will, dear,” her father said, not unkindly.

  “That’s it?” Damian blurted out, and everyone turned to look at him. He immediately regretted his decision, but he couldn’t exactly take it back now. “I mean—he didn’t mention his other comments to the Princess?”

  Both royals wore the same frown at Damian’s response. But it was the King who spoke. “He did not. What did he say?”

  Damian’s eyes flicked to Kat, who shook her head so faintly it was almost imperceptible. For her sake, or his? But if he wasn’t here to defend her, then what was he here to do? Damian squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and looked the King in the eyes.

  “He called her fat and threatened to restrict her diet.”

  The King’s expression darkened like the stormfront ahead of a blizzard. Damian noticed the Queen’s face remained impassive. Morozov’s gaze swung to his daughter. “Is this true?”

  Kat stared pointedly at her plate. Damian noticed she had barely eaten, choosing instead to push things around. “Not in so many words. But... sort of.”

  The temperature in the room dropped sharply, and Damian shivered as his breath suddenly misted in front of him. Wood groaned as the King grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles going white. It lasted only a moment, but the freezing embrace of the King’s aura cut deep to his bones—like the fiercest winter wind Damian had ever felt. Even the candles dimmed as the flames sputtered and struggled to find oxygen.

  Then light and heat returned, and Damian gasped for air, having held his breath without realizing it.

  “I will have to excuse myself early,” the King said in a low voice, pushing away from the table. “Please—continue without me. I apologize for leaving early, Damian, but thank you for speaking honestly. We will speak again soon.”

  Damian’s mouth felt dry again as the man walked from the room, and he noticed the candleflames leaning away from him as he passed. That was true power; the likes of which he hadn’t seen outside the gods. The mark of a high-level individual. It terrified Damian in a primal way, like a mouse shaded by a hawk overhead.

  He wondered if he’d made a mistake.

  “It’s about time someone reminded that upstart his role is one of service,” the Queen grumbled, cutting the tension in the room like a hot knife through butter.

  Kat visibly slumped. When she spoke, it was a low mutter. “He did use a skill—he wasn’t exactly wrong.”

  “Being correct doesn’t make you right,” the Queen said with a voice like steel. “He would do well to remember you are his [Princess], soon to be the [Wolf Queen] of his country. He is good at his job, but his job is not to mock you. You look fine, darling. In fact, let’s have a treat. Anna! Let’s have ice cream, please.”

  While the Queen’s gaze was momentarily averted to address Anna—one of the servants—Kat mouthed “thank you” to Damian, and he nodded in response. Damian had no idea what ice cream was, but when the chilled silver bowls were delivered, he thought it looked like a strange chilled grain mash. When he took a bite, it was like biting into a cloud; a syrupy, cold, soft cloud that tasted like happiness. By the second bite, he decided it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.

  “Do you like it?” the Queen asked, a small smile on her face.

  Damian nodded vigorously.

  “Good,” she said, her smile widening slightly. “It’s a specialty of our country. We export a fair bit. [Nobles] favor it all over the continent.”

  “I can see why,” Damian said through a mouthful—then covered his mouth with his hand and blushed furiously at the break in decorum.

  But the Queen didn’t call him out on it. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Call it my thanks for keeping true to your word?”

  That threw him off. Keeping his word? He didn’t remember giving the Queen his word on anything. Or speaking with her at all, for that matter.

  “Erm, my word?” Damian asked, hoping it wasn’t rude to request elaboration.

  The Queen arched an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to her daughter. She reached out and grabbed Kat’s hand, squeezing it, and Kat smiled contentedly around a spoonful of ice cream. As cold as the Queen had seemed emotionally, in that moment Damian knew she truly cared.

  “For helping my daughter, in any way you can.”

  Oh—that promise. Damian hadn’t realized the King had passed that along to his wife, though it made sense. He sat a little straighter, feeling her attention on him and wanting to look the part. In the end, he thought he sounded a little lame, but it was all he could come up with.

  “I meant what I said, and I intend to keep my promise.”