Chapter 2

After I become his Cup Bearer, I'm much closer to Aethon Kronides.

He doesn't like his wine strong. Afternoon, lukewarm. When he's reading war dispatches, the cup goes to his left hand. If anyone tries to guess what he's thinking, he throws them out.

I never say more than I have to.

Like a lamp in the corner. Standing quiet.

When the Queen sends herbal draughts, I murmur before serving: "My lord, the physician said this heats the blood. If tonight's feast has rich meat, both together may do more harm than good."

Aethon glances at me.

I drop lower. "Forgive me — I only worry about the medicines clashing. Wouldn't want the Queen's care to go to waste."

He says nothing. Pushes the bowl aside.

When Basileia plants her people in the Solarium to spy on me, I don't report them. I make trouble for them quietly, then let Theron find the mess himself.

I never say a word against the Heraion.

I stay what I am. A faithful servant.

But under my quiet hand, Aethon starts noticing: the Queen's reach goes too far.

Sometimes he asks: "You don't seem to fear the Queen."

"She is your Queen. I revere her, my lord."

"Reverence and fear aren't the same."

I lower my head. "I stand too low to fear anyone that high. As long as my work is clean, I get to live another day."

That night, the Solarium catches fire.

A lamp-stand crashes into the desk. Oil splashes.

Attendants scream and scatter.

On the desk — urgent dispatches. Border reports. Disaster tallies. Alliance oaths he hasn't sealed.

I don't hesitate. I throw myself between the fire and the scrolls. Pull them against my chest. The heat bites into my arms. Skin cooking.

"Don't pour water — felt! Smother it!"

"Tear the curtain down — fire's going east!"

"Sand! Now! Go!"

The hall is chaos. I'm shouting orders.

Hair singed. Face black. Every scroll untouched.

Aethon arrives. I'm on my knees sorting documents.

"Who told you to risk your life for these?!"

I bow low. "I didn't want my lord's long night to go to waste."

He stares at my arms. Something dark behind his eyes.

The physician dusts powder on the burns. I flinch.

"Does it hurt?"

"Very much, my lord."

"Then why aren't you crying?"

I smile. Just barely. "Crying hurts just the same. Might as well save my strength."

After that, he keeps me close. I still don't compete. When gifts come, I give them to the other girls. When Theron praises me, I say it's his good training. When others get jealous, I stay out of their way.

I know what happens to those who rise too fast in this court.

A few nights later, he calls me to his private chamber. There's a wound on his shoulder — training cut, shallow, but it keeps cracking open. The physician left a salve, but Aethon won't let the man back in twice in one night.

"You know medicines. You do it."

I sit beside him on the low bench. The salve warms between my fingers. His skin is hot. I keep my hands steady.

"You saved the cup-hall girl. Protected my scrolls. Done plenty of good turns nobody asked for." He doesn't look at me. "Why don't you ever take credit?"

I smooth the salve along the wound. "I stand too low. If the credit gets too heavy, it'll snap my neck."

He turns his head. Looks at me.

"You really treasure your life."

"I only have one. Of course I do."

"What if I gave you a second?"

I look up. Blank.

He stands. Walks toward me. His shadow falls over me.

The clay jar of salve slips in my hand. A small sharp sound.

"Eirene Nyx."

First time he says my name like he means it.

"I'm here, my lord."

His thumb traces the soot on my cheek.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes." My eyes flicker. "But I'm more afraid of staying at the bottom my whole life. Dying without anyone hearing the sound."

The candle flares. He bends closer.

And so I enter the God-King's bed.

When I close my eyes — my mother. The day they carried her back. That body that wasn't a body.

Next morning, the word spreads through the Inner Sanctum.

The Cup Bearer stays. The God-King wants her near him.

Basileia Chryse finally hears my name.

They say she barely looked up from her roses.

"A servant who learned a few tricks. Nothing to worry about."