Chapter Eleven
As the sun dips below the terracotta rooftops of Rava, casting a pinkish glow over the tables by the windows, I realize to my dismay I’m still only halfway through my one and only shift at the Lucky Fish. I’m exhausted.
The tavern is a far cry from the tiny old place in Stellargrove where I once had a brief stint as a waitress at weekends, before they kindly showed me the door for my remarkable lack of serving skills.
The worst thing that happened to me then was tripping over my own feet and landing face first in a plate of mashed potatoes, and today somehow manages to top that.
The place is rammed, as it has been since lunch.
I’m constantly darting between chaotic kitchen staff and noisy patrons, facing a never-ending barrage of demands.
To top it all off, sunset marks happy hour, so now I’m scribbling down drink orders at twice the pace, my notepad and pen perpetually clenched in a white-knuckled grip.
“Don’t frown too hard,” Taron mutters as I pass him on my way to the bar. “Your face might stay that way.”
“Ha, ha … very funny,” I drone, making sure he sees me rolling my eyes. Possibly the worst part about this job is the fact that Taron seems to be a natural at it.
When he’s in the kitchen, he’s churning out washed plates faster than customers can finish their meals and, when he’s out here in the tavern, he glides easily through the maze of tables, using his talents to lay down dishes and snatch up empty glasses.
His emotionless nature is serving him well – he seems unflustered by the constant demands – and somehow even that infuriates me.
I grind my teeth as I watch the train of hovering crockery obediently follow him back into the kitchen.
Working here was my idea, after all. I’m supposed to be the one putting him to shame, not the other way around.
Earlier, when I asked Taron whether he could do this sort of stuff, he said no. It would seem he’s now both heartless and a liar.
I curse under my breath, realizing I can’t decipher an order I scribbled down ten minutes ago. Two non-alcoholic … somethings.
“What do you think this says?” I ask the barman.
He leans in and grunts, but he seems to understand because he takes two glasses from under the counter and starts mixing some kind of concoction.
My breath hovers in my throat when I finally return from the bar with what I hope are the correct drinks. I thread my way between the tables, anxiety knotting my stomach.
“Here you go,” I announce, placing the drinks in front of the two young women at the table.
“Fab, thanks,” says one of the women. She has golden hair that cascades across her shoulders in perfect waves, and her eyes are a striking blend of blue and green. Her smile has something calming about it. Exactly what I need right now.
“Sorry about the wait. It’s my first day, and…” I’m rambling. I bite my tongue and force a smile.
“Hey, relax. Nobody died, right?” The dark-skinned woman sitting across from the white one shoots me a wink, and it’s hard not to be captivated by the almost translucent quality of her emerald eyes.
I steal an admiring glance at the raven-black plait flowing down her back, adorned with delicate sandstone ornaments, worn by those hailing from the White Desert.
“Right,” I say. “Thanks. For understanding.”
As I pivot towards the kitchen, I sense a shift in the air of the tavern. Chatter fades into hushed murmurs, and the ambient noise gives way to pointed stares.
I turn to face the entrance, where a young man, practically dripping with arrogance, is throwing a long crimson coat at a man beside him. All eyes are on him as he rolls up his sleeves and saunters to an available table by the window.
He’s handsome, tall and broad-shouldered with a shock of champagne-blond hair. But something about him makes my skin crawl.
It’s the way he flops down on a chair and kicks his legs on to the table. The way he bites his lip as he winks at a passerby.
“Who is that?” I ask, accidentally out loud.
The two young women look up at me, their eyebrows raised. “Not from around here, are you?” says the raven-haired woman.
Whoever he is, I’d rather not serve him, but luck isn’t on my side, and the only other server is predictably nowhere to be seen.
The owner – Mr Bo, as I’ve since learned his name – shoots me a look from behind the bar that translates to, “What are you waiting for? Get on with it.”
I nod and smooth down my apron before crossing the room.
The handsome but arrogant customer barely notices me as I approach.
He still has his feet up on the table, chair tipped back at a precarious angle.
A rogue streak of twilight sun reflects off the window into his lap, and he toys idly with it, bending the light as though it’s something tangible and shining it in his companion’s eyes. He’s a Helio.
I follow his hair to where it brushes against his collar, pausing an instant on his face, which is sprinkled with a constellation of freckles. He’s wearing a black silk blouse unbuttoned at his chest, tucked into a pair of tight black trousers.
Our eyes meet. I’m surprised by how striking his are – a deep, dark brown – and the intensity of his expression. Then he snaps his fingers at me, and a bolt of recognition skitters across my skin.
He’s Cyrus, the youngest son of High Prince Hevio, hailing from the neighbouring principality of Solara. His brash reputation precedes him; he is a constant in the headlines for all the wrong reasons.
I also recognize his companion now. He’s Gideon, Cyrus’s long-time servant. He’s slightly shorter with a lean physique, olive skin and a sort of confident indifference.
“Welcome to the Lucky Fish,” I say, the cheerfulness of my smile a thin veil over the irritation simmering beneath.
Cyrus scowls. “Took you long enough. The service here is atrocious.”
I arch a brow. That’s some cheek, speaking to me like I’m one of his servants. He probably expects me to fall to his feet and apologize, but that’s not happening.
“If you don’t like it here,” I say, “you could always take your business elsewhere.”
Cyrus blinks as though he’s never been defied before. Then he lets out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Do you even know who I am?”
“This is Young Prince Cyrus of Solara,” Gideon declares, introducing him as though we’re at some diplomatic dinner rather than a waterside tavern.
“Fourth in line to the throne and future victor of the Reckoning,” he adds loudly, mostly for the benefit of those seated around them, who all clap obligingly.
I try my best to conceal my surprise. The Reckoning? Is the prince really here to compete in the tournament?
I didn’t think dignitaries were eligible to participate. And is High Prince Hevio OK with sending his son into what might be a fight to the death?
Cyrus snaps his fingers again, right in front of my face. “Oi! Are you listening?” The impatience in his voice permeates the air around him. It smells sharp and metallic, like a dirty copper coin. “Quit loafing around and serve us. We’ve travelled a long way, and I don’t have all day.”
“If you’re ordering drinks, I’ll have to see your sigils.
” I don’t, really. Cyrus’s extravagant twentieth birthday was splashed across the front page of every newspaper only a couple of months ago, so I know he’s over the legal drinking age of eighteen.
But the look of utter disbelief crossing his features now makes feigning naivety all the more worth it.
“My sigil?” he asks. “This is ridiculous.”
“No sigil, no drink.”
His reaction is immediate and explosive. He leaps to his feet and clamps his hands around my wrists. I try to wrench free, but he shoves me back against the wall behind me, pinning me there. Several customers gasp, but Cyrus ignores them.
“How dare you say no to me?” he spits. “Do you have any idea what my father could do to this place? A word from me and he’ll raze it to the ground, with you still in it!”
I hold my ground, locking eyes with him despite the fury swirling in his dark irises. “I doubt that’s true,” I say as calmly as I can. “Considering he’s allowing you to fight in the tournament, it’s unlikely your father even cares whether or not you’re here.”
His eyes widen. I watch as his expression contorts into a look of pure hurt before rage takes over.
That’s it, I think. This is exactly the kind of anger I’m after.
The air around him crackles, and shadows start to gather around his face, dark wisps of negative energy that snake and coil across his forehead.
Cyrus’s grip on my wrists hardens. It hurts, but adrenaline fuels me, heightening my senses. I want to reach out, my fingertips tingling with the anticipation of making contact with his turbulent aura.
One touch, and I’ll have a glimpse into his deepest fears and vulnerabilities; valuable information Taron and I could use against him in the tournament. But then…
“What do you think you’re doing?” Taron’s voice lacerates the air. Sharp. Cold. I glance over as he drops a crate of dishes on a nearby table and steps forward.
In seconds, he’s closed the gap between them. He doesn’t touch Cyrus, only stares at him without moving. The Young Prince blinks in surprise. He lets go of me, and the negative energy inching across his skin recedes. I bite the inside of my cheek. I was so close.
“Watch yourself, buddy,” Gideon snarls, forcing his smaller frame in between the two men, chin tilted upward to meet Taron’s frozen stare. “The Principal Guard could have your head for talking to the Young Prince like that.”
Taron leers at Gideon. “A big title doesn’t give him the right to push people around.”
“I didn’t push anyone,” Cyrus insists. “Not anyone who counts, anyway.” He gives me a dismissive look, and Taron works his jaw.
His reaction is surprising, considering his otherwise indifferent nature – and the fact that we barely know each other.
I didn’t think he would care what anyone said about me. Maybe he doesn’t, and it’s just the arrogance of an entitled royal that’s tipped him over the edge.
Either way, Taron doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d seek this kind of public confrontation, and yet, looking at him now, silently staring Cyrus square in the eyes, he almost seems relaxed, despite his anger. As though he has done this before.
“What’s the matter?” Cyrus taunts when Taron doesn’t move. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“I doubt your fragile ego can handle it.”
Cyrus growls as fury sparks across his face. He lunges forward and shoves Taron hard in the chest, but Taron barely registers the blow. This only seems to fuel the Young Prince’s anger.
Extending his arm towards the window, Cyrus catches the sunbeam he toyed with before. It snaps off in his hand like a twig, and the light briefly melts into his palm like putty before jutting forward in the shape of a sword.
Murmurs ripple through the tavern, and the golden-haired girl I served earlier sprints over with her hands raised in a gesture of peace.
“Come on, guys,” she says, stepping between Taron and Cyrus. “It doesn’t cost much to be civilized.”
“Out of the way, Kara,” Cyrus orders, clearly familiar with her.
“Not until you shatter your blade,” she says. “Need I remind you, harassing staff members in a reputable tavern is a surefire way to tarnish your precious reputation. You could be booted out of the tournament for this. You know that, right?”
Cyrus hesitates. Just when I think he is about to ignore her and charge at Taron, he shatters his blade on the floor. The beam dissipates into shimmering flecks of light, which dissolve into the air.
The Young Prince takes a step back to compose himself, although his focus remains fixed on me and Taron. “You’re lucky Kara’s here to make me realize what a waste of time you both are,” he says, boredly flopping back down in his seat.
I startle when his fist suddenly bangs on to the table. “Hello? Does anyone useful work in here?”
Within seconds, Mr Bo emerges from the kitchen. He rushes over, red-faced and frazzled. “Oh … my sincerest apologies, Your Highness. Is everything in order?”
“No, not even close,” Cyrus says. He gestures at me and Taron. “These two are refusing me service.”
“Well,” I argue, “he was being incredibly rude and…”
“Get His Royal Highness a crock of our finest Solaran red,” Mr Bo barks at me, his nostrils flaring. “On the house, of course.”
“Thank you, my good man.” Cyrus leans back in his seat, all smug satisfaction. As I pivot on my heels to get the drinks, he can’t resist a final, arrogant jab in my direction. “And be quick about it, Freckles.”