Book 5: Packing Up

Amval

“All right.” Nur crosses her arms, standing before the line of us grooms. “I’m sure you are aware of why we’re all here.”

“Sadism,” Tek hisses in my ear.

I smother a smile. My head pounds, a side effect of another night at the Gruesome Pony, but I’m growing used to the balance of our early mornings and Ozkan’s strong, if noxious, ale.

Almost a week has passed since Ingrid discovered the truth. I’ve seen her in glimpses, here and there, but it seems as if she warned the guards about me. It has been much harder to get into the palace than it even was before.

Which means I have no access to the investigation into my own attempted murder and a head full of quite vivid memories of what my mate looks like on top of me, which I can do nothing about.

Frankly, it may be a miracle I didn’t turn to drink sooner.

“The Festival of the First Wind is next week,” Nur says. “And—”

“They’re still going?” I blurt.

Nur shoots