Chapter 7

  River sat motionless, wondering how he kept getting dragged into these rooms, nights like this. William’s smile was quick, princely. “Dinner in ten.” He was already moving. River wasn’t here to eat; he was here to collect allies. Playing nice with high society was step one.

  “By the light of Lady Luck… fuck,” he muttered, the word harsher than he meant. He swung his legs over the bed’s edge and stood, but Calira shifted against his collarbone—a soft chirp like a pebble dropped in water. She felt the current inside him; she always did. Did she see what he saw when their minds braided together? Another question for the pile. Not tonight. He couldn’t afford a bad first impression. He needed to Focus. He pushed his consciousness outward, searching for the familiar thrum: Albert’s steady depth, Amalia’s fierce current. There—he angled toward the room.

  He followed the handrail down the broad staircase, listening for clinks and low voices. Any sign of life. The smell hit him first—roasted meat, warm bread, herbs smoldering in butter. He turned the corner into the kitchen, and the room stilled for a heartbeat. Chefs and servants stared, then a young man hurried forward.

  “This way to the hall, sir.” He bowed and set off, guiding with a firm hand.

  River nodded and let himself be guided. Hands visible— don’t reach for anything. Old habit. He caught himself before he could make that mistake.

  The thought stuck. Once, he wouldn’t have been allowed near the doorway, much less the heart of it. Now people stepped aside in deference. They didn’t even know him. Nobility, they assumed, simply from the way he moved—not his face. The result was the same as before—space opened around him—but the reason had changed.

  And it didn’t feel earned.

  The dining hall opened like a stage. No one was seated; low chatter skimmed the walls. River made a beeline for the window, where Amalia and Albert spoke in low voices.

  “You made it,” Amalia said, smirking.

  River offered a half-smile and let their warmth take the edge off his chest. Attendants drifted by with silver trays, the choreography too smooth to be improvised. Laughter pinged off the corners, more performance than joy.

  He scanned the crowd. If William had important people, they’d be the cluster with space around them. There, by the far wall with William himself, stood four figures, each stealing quick glances in River’s direction.

  He studied them one by one. A bald man gleaming with jewelry, rings stacked like scales. A woman with Amalia’s bone structure—her mother, obviously. Beside them, a tall, regal figure with a face carved to be stern.

  And then—

  His stomach dropped. Sugar-sweet smile, those empty eyes. Like a hawk watching field mice. Next to her stood a man with long dark hair and a hooked nose, posture so rigid it had to be trained from childhood. River’s gaze snapped back to the woman. He knew that face.

  “Miss Beatrix,” he said under his breath. She hadn’t changed. The same false, saccharine curve to her mouth; the same predatory assessment in her eyes. His memory swarmed with images. Bruises, snapped sticks, whispers passed like contraband in the night. She was the one who’d made them choose their own switches, who’d smile when your hand hovered over a thin one and then send you back for something heavier.

  She hadn’t just been cruel. She’d enjoyed it.

  His jaw ached; his fists tightened at his sides. Why was she here?

  Of all the people to crawl into a noble’s hall.

  He inhaled slowly, counting it in. He couldn’t lose control. Not here. Not now. One thing, though, he knew: dinner had just become a hunt.

  Steam and spice rolled off the platters. Through the heat, a clean thread of lavender. At her wrist, a narrow clasp flashed, a serpent coiled around something, he thought—then it slid back beneath her cuff.

  He turned to the window, trying to unknot his face. The glass gave him his reflection anyway.

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  A hand touched his shoulder.

  “You all right?” Amalia asked, voice low.

  “Yes,” he said through his teeth. “Why is Miss Beatrix here?”

  Amalia blinked. “You know her?” A stiff nod. He didn’t let his eyes leave Beatrix; some part of him believed if he glanced away she’d slip a knife between his ribs—literal or otherwise. River could tell that she wanted an explanation, but he didn’t have it in him. Not now.

  “Norvil money,” Amalia said, between shallow breaths. “The crown listens.”

  River nearly choked on the word. “She’ll never be my ally.”

  The bitterness burned like bile. He turned enough that Amalia could see it—how close the fury was to the surface. She frowned, confused. “You’re going to have to explain that.”

  He exhaled sharply and looked away, embarrassed by the spill of feeling. Not now. He pressed the rage down until it lived far under the floorboards, muffled but not gone.

  A steward rang a bell. Silk and polished boots rose as one, the hall tilting toward the doors. The dining room unrolled in white and gold. A long table draped in silk finer than anything River had ever owned. Candelabras cast soft halos over extravagant dishes: bowls brimming with jewel-bright fruit, gleaming cuts of meat, vegetables arranged like miniature landscapes, cakes layered with candied petals. The smell rose in waves—sweet, savory, spiced—rich enough to make his head swim.

  He found his place easily; it had been chosen for him. Beside his plate sat a small silver bowl heaped with seasoned meat and vegetables—Calira’s share. She chirped, pleased, and hopped to the edge of the table, minding her claws.

  To his dismay, neither Albert nor Amalia sat nearby—deliberate, of course.

  He took his seat anyway. Across from him, Miss Beatrix was smiling. Watching. Behind the smile he felt the click and whir of analysis. She was dissecting him, piece by piece, waiting for the lightbulb of recognition. If it flickered, she didn’t show it. She only sipped her wine and let her gaze weigh on him.

  William sat to River’s left, posture easy but eyes knife-sharp. To his right, the bald man with the handlebar moustache had already started building a small mountain on his plate, humming as he worked. Further down, Amalia and Albert flanked her mother—elegant, poised, her glance catching everything and betraying nothing.

  Cutlery clicked; conversation murmured underneath, the sound of a current under still water.

  “So,” said the bald man—name already gone. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I hear you’re not from the capital.” His voice was smooth, the kind you get after sanding off every edge.

  River angled toward him. He needed to lie. “That’s correct.”

  “Norvil can be… overwhelming to those unaccustomed.” His eyes slid down the table and back. “But I imagine you’ll adjust well. Especially for someone so young.”

  “You’d be surprised what you can adjust to when you have no choice,” River said.

  A polite chuckle. “Indeed. And yet here you are, seated at a table most only dream of. Quite the leap, I assume.”

  They wanted him small; River felt the nudge but let the pause stretch. Instead of backing down, he leaned in. He’d walk out with something. Across the table, Beatrix turned her wine, catching the candlelight.

  “Some leaps are born of talent,” she said. “Others,”—she let the pause breathe—“of lineage.”

  River went still. William’s fork paused mid-cut.

  Beatrix’s smile never touched her eyes. “Which is it, I wonder—lineage or talent? Lineage leaves traces; talent leaves clues.” The smile sharpened a fraction. “It would be nice to find out, wouldn’t it?”

  River’s answer came, a coolness slotting into place behind his eyes. “I imagine everyone here has their own idea.”

  The bald man chuckled again, lower. “Diplomatic. You’ve been trained well. Or perhaps that’s natural instinct?”

  “Perhaps.” River lifted his glass. “Depends on what you believe about blood.”

  “And what do you believe?” Beatrix asked, head tipped like a bird’s.

  “That power doesn’t make a person noble,” he said. “And being noble doesn’t make you powerful.”

  The table hushed. Calira pecked delicately at her bowl, the small sound crisp in the quiet.

  “Well said,” William offered lightly. “Norvil could use a few more minds like that.”

  Beatrix’s expression didn’t change, but frost slid into her gaze, and a chill skated down River’s spine. “I look forward to seeing whether those words carry weight when it matters.”

  “So do I,” River said, offering a small, unreadable curve of his own.

  His introduction to Norvil’s gilded world hadn’t gone to plan, but he counted one victory: Beatrix had been in the room, and he hadn’t launched himself across the table. For tonight, that qualified.

  As the last plates cleared and guests drifted toward doors and corridors, River crossed to the far end where Amalia and Albert lingered with her mother.

  He slid into the empty chair. “Was that your mother?” he asked Amalia.

  She nodded. “Everyone says I look like her. I don’t see it.”

  For the first time all evening, River laughed—quick and genuine. “She looks like you. Just thirty years older.”

  Amalia stuck out her tongue and scooped up Nymeira. “You’re the worst,” she said, already heading for the exit in a swish of skirts and claws.

  That left River and Albert mostly to themselves. Calira and Tessa curled at their feet, content and heavy-lidded.

  “So… how did it go?” River asked, wondering how much of the undercurrent Albert had felt.

  Albert blinked. “The dinner? Fine, I guess.”

  Of course. To Albert, it really had been dinner. No hidden blades in the compliments, no ledgers behind the smiles. Just nobles being nobles.

  River pushed back his chair. “All right. Good night.”

  On his way out, he scratched under Calira’s chin. She chirped, bright and small. He didn’t know what came next, but he’d kept his footing tonight. He hadn’t flinched.

  The biggest challenges were still ahead. Everyone knew it. But today, he felt a fraction more ready than yesterday.