Pyrok flicks the flame from one hand to the other like a ball, its illumination casting his face in fierce, angular shadows. “What do you know?”
That Elluin was stabbed to death—contrary to the story we were all spoon-fed like younglings desperate for a scrap of sustenance.
“Let me rephrase,” Pyrok says with a roll of his emerald eyes. “Is whatever you do know going to lead us to war with our fledgling army?”
I shrug.
He curses, squashing the flame in his fist, fingers still steaming as he runs them through his hair. “For someone who’s never officially been to war, you’re incredibly hungry for it.”
“What have we been preparing for all these phases if not to swipe the filth from the board and undo all of Pah’s hard, bloody work?” Tucking one leg beneath myself, I pivot, unlacing my leather vest from where it’s threaded down my front and sides. I loosen it, pull it over my head, then lift my loose brown tunic, exposing the ancient fire-lash marks I know make a damn good mess of the pretty skin on my back. “You know I didn’t keep these because I like the look of them,” I say, tossing him a backward glance, though he keeps his eyes on my scars—stare bouncing from one deep, mangled slash to the next. “I kept them so that every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of why Tyroth and Cadok need to rot.”
Nothing quite like winning your own Tookah Trial, then being scored to shreds by your own blood for soiling the family name.
Yes, I’m war hungry. I’ve earned that right. Seventy-eight times, to be exact.
Pyrok clears his throat, dropping his gaze as I spin, wiggling my tunic back into place—not bothering with my vest.
“I didn’t get to rip off Pah’s head,” I mutter, reaching for the mug of brandy and tipping myself a glass. “I’ll rip off theirs.”
“Well, let me know if you want me to fry their cocks.”
“Maybe. See how I feel at the time.” I jerk my chin at the stack of Skripi cards and the eight-sided dice tucked in a tall clay mug beside it. “Deal us.”
“I hate when you’re bossy,” he groans, sitting up and reaching for the deck, swiping away some of the thickening tension.
“If I don’t boss you around, nobody will. As it is, you’re about as useful as a pretty mead-stained floor rug.”
“Pretty, you say? Fuck me,” he boasts, chest puffed, elbows on his spread knees as he leans forward and shuffles. “I’m flattered.”
“Course you are.”
He winks, dealing the hard parchment shards. I snatch each one that slides onto the table before me, features smooth as silk despite my delectable hand.
This game loves me.
“I don’t want to play for gold. I’ve got enough gold.” I fan my deal, reordering them from best to worst—left to right. “I want to play for favors.”
Pyrok snort-laughs. “Take it you’ve got the Moonplume?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I purr, batting my lashes at him.
He cuts me a dry look, then lays the rest of the deck around the board that never leaves the table. That’s absorbed more spilled Molten Mead than Pyrok—and that’s saying something.
“My roll,” I say, reaching for the cup containing the dice. “Since your face annoys me.”
“You said I was pretty.”
“Yeah.” I toss the dice across the table, rolling a six, picking the eighteenth shard from the far left corner. Choosing to add the spangle to my deck, I set my sowmoth face down on the empty spot. “Pretty annoying.”
Pyrok chuckles, shaking his head. He throws the dice, picking up a shard he ponders, the smile smoothing from his face. “Grihm seen your scars?”
“Course not. Why?”
He slides the shard into his fan, placing another in its spot on the grid. “Just wondering. Don’t tell the King what?”
“Not telling, and if you try to pry the information from poor, vulnerable Agni with your charm stick, I’ll murder you in your sleep.”
“The fucked-up thing is, I actually believe you,” he mutters, and I cut him a sharp smile—gone the next second.
I roll the dice again, picking up the hushling, face stony as I say, “Elluin used to keep a diary, you know. I once caught her tucking it into a hole in the wall. In the suite she’s sleeping in right now, actually.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Pyrok asks, pouring himself a glass while I deliberate what to trade out.