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“So it would seem.”
Teigra reached for her pendant. On the one hand, she couldn’t think of anything worse than being there, with every other woman judging her for being with the most eligible bachelor in the city. And this was hardly the time. Not with the prospect of war still fresh in the air.
And yet, part of her also wished to see him again. There had been something there last time, hadn’t there? Some kind of connection?
Is it possible that the prince isn’t gay? Is it possible... that he actually likes me?
“And what is your decision?” Teigra asked. She knew that attending was not her own choice to make.
Ms. Securia took Teigra firmly by the wrist and dragged her to the statue of Mesti. The high envoy laid Teigra’s palm against the cold, sanctified metal, right over the breast of the celestial strix.
“You are to answer truthfully, Ms. Cosmin. Under the gaze of your goddess, where a lie will incur a curse beyond any mortal punishment I could deliver. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her breath stuttering. “I do.”
“Did you deliberately assist the herald at the Wax Crack?”
Her heartbeats slowed in the certainty of her honesty. “No.”
Ms. Securia pressed her flesh more firmly. “Are you now party to any effort to trick or ensnare His Highness into granting a military pact to Mestibes?”
“No!”
“And do you care about him?”
The calm deepened still. “I do. He is a good man who carries a heavy burden.”
Her skin didn’t burst into flames against the metal. After a time, Ms. Securia closed her eyes and released Teigra’s hand. “Then we must make sure you are dressed for the occasion.”
60
AURELIUS
“War?”
The giantess hooker was a pro. She hissed the word at exactly the right volume to gather them in—just soft enough to be alluring, but just loud enough that everyone could hear.
It was a quiet night at the Beautiful Bunch. As few humans as the bar usually got, the appeal of the Rose Rain Ball, happening a mile or so to the east, had still sucked the gravity of merriment away from this part of town.
From the ringed balcony, Aurelius counted no more than ten drinkers below, holding their wine as close as their desperation.
“I’m afraid so, Hemlock,” he said, leaning back precariously as the others gathered around—giants in skimpy pelts, a few humans in sheer fabrics, and even a kobaloi or two, one of which popped up right behind him, its tiny tits a-wagging, in a sad attempt to scare him into falling.
He paid her no mind, focusing instead on his third or eighth mug of wine.
Gods, it was good!
All these last three days had been good!
After two months of deprivation, he had almost forgotten the glory of the grape—that upfront explosion of flavor and the comforting warmth of the linger. And this vintage in particular was better than any of the watered-down swill from back home. You could practically taste the fucking sunshine in it...
His gaze rose to the crowd. There were expectant looks on faces of hugely variable size.
After a moment of haze, he remembered. “Oh, yeah, war!”
“It can’t be true!” said one of the humans. “The Rinathi are going to invade?”
“Pfft,” spat a giantess, hocking a fat gob onto a wooden bucket a few feet away. “Gonna invade them, not us. My da’ fought in a Brotherhood during the Third—back when those fucking red-cloaks actually let us full bloods in. He said we ’ad the chance to kill all them Rinathi! But it was your lot that stopped us!”
