I gently, deliberately, rested my palm against Arin’s cheek.
If you want my strongest theory, I suspect touching you while you can fully express your magic would kill me.
He snatched my hand in a tight grip. His gloved fingers flexed around my bare wrist, but he didn’t throw my hand aside.
“Arin.” I laid my cheek on his hair. “Am I hurting you?”
He dropped a feather-light kiss to my chin. “Constantly.” But it was wistful, content.
I stroked the length of his face. The rhapsodies of poets and the lovelorn melodies. I understood them now. I lacked the talent for composition, so I traced the veins at the underside of his wrist, pressed kisses along the hard line of his jaw, memorized the shape of his smile. Maybe it would translate.
“We should go,” Arin murmured against my lips. “They’ll be done with the speeches. Most of the guests are deep into the talwith.”
“Ugh, talwith.” He helped me off the bed. “What if we say the Nizahl Heir was expressing his personal congratulations to his Champion?” I waggled my brows.
Arin adjusted his circlet on his head, mumbling under his breath. Imploring a higher power for patience, probably. I unpinned my hair, letting it bounce around my heated cheeks.
When I tried to reach for the door, Arin grabbed my wrist. “I can handle one more.” He reeled me back for a hard kiss. He tangled a hand in my freed curls, tilting my head with his thumb on my chin to keep me still. I’d seen him hold lethal weapons similarly, wielding them just so. If Arin was as fastidious with his lovers as he was with everything else, I didn’t see how anyone could survive him. He had barely touched me, and already I felt wholly charred.
When Arin drew back, a wicked promise bloomed in his eyes.
“You are not what I was expecting,” he whispered.
“You’ve said that to me before,” I said, embarrassingly breathless.
The narrow hall connecting the spire to the wing hosting the Victor’s Ball clinked with our footsteps. Glass panels ran from the top to the bottom of each wall, and I was poignantly aware of just how high from the ground we were, with only the thin floor supporting us.
The distressing hall ended, and we maneuvered down a spiral staircase. At the bottom, an archway in the shape of a raven unfurling its wings led into the ballroom. Two swords formed the top of the arch.
Arin pulled aside the curtain. “After you.” Steeling my nerves, I passed the archway into a ballroom of pure splendor. Lanterns hung from vaulted ceilings and lined the walls. A platform was set up in the center and draped in a silky black sheet for the royal tables. Nizahl had certainly not spared any expense. Liquor flowed liberally. The musicians played Omalian instruments in a nod to my home kingdom. Hundreds of well-dressed guests twirled throughout the ballroom, their chatter splashing over me in a wave of sound.
Diya had not been unacknowledged. The banquet table boasted a broad variety of salted meats and thick za’atar bread, sugared pomegranate seeds in carved wooden bowls, sweetened bread soaked and baked in fresh milk. Three other tables were dedicated to ales and bottles of lavender talwith, the Orbanian specialty.
The royals sat on high-backed cushioned chairs on the platform, watching the buoyant dancers and conversing. One royal remained notably absent from the Orbanian table. Sorn lingered in the shadows, a cup dangling from his fingertips.
“I’ll be back,” I murmured. Arin frowned, but he didn’t attempt to stop me.
The Orban Heir tracked my approach with a mixture of scorn and ennui. “Well, if it isn’t the Victor. Come to gloat?” Sorn drained his glass. I could barely hear him over all the noise.
Though I figured Sorn’s intelligence was roughly equivalent to that of an unshelled walnut, he had cared for his Champion. It was more than what could be said for Vaida and Felix. “I’m sorry about what happened to Diya. She didn’t deserve to lose in such a deceptive and dishonorable manner. I am confident she’ll wake.”
From nowhere, Sorn produced a bottle, upending its remains into his glass. My nose wrinkled at the cloying scent. Talwith. How much had he consumed? “You’re confident? My, the village orphan is confident Diya will wake. Quick, summon the heralds! We must share this marvelous news!”
What else had I expected? I turned on my heel, leaving Sorn to make a further spectacle of himself. I wished Diya was here, if only so I could ask her what on earth endeared the boorish Heir to the caustic, quick-witted warrior.
Traditionally, the Victor took a coveted seat at the royal platform. Supreme Rawain lounged in his chair, his scepter tucked under his arm as he rolled a grape between his fingers. He wore Nizahl’s traditional black robes and a violet cape pinned at his collar. Sitting in a bucket of broken glass was preferable to sitting anywhere near Rawain.