“You’re a prize,” he says. “My victory prize for winning the Third Trial.”
“A prize?” I say. “Why would I be—”
The knowledge sweeps through me suddenly, and I shake my head—as if that will make a difference. I’m keenly aware of the amount of skin showing through my ripped dress, and I try to draw the remnants of cloth together. I take a step back, straight into the chill, rough stone of the wall. It’s as far away as I can get, but it won’t be far enough. I’ve seen Veturius fight. He is too fast, too big, too strong.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He turns from the bureau, looking at me with an odd sympathy in his eyes. “That’s not how I am.” He holds out a clean, black cloak. “Take this—it’s freezing.”
I eye the cloak. I’m so cold. I’ve been cold since the Augur threw me in here hours ago. But I can’t take what Veturius offers. There’s a trick in this.
There must be. Why would I have been chosen as his prize if not for that?
After a moment, he sets the cloak on the cot. I can smell the rain on him, and something darker. Death.
Silently, he starts a fire in the hearth. His hands tremble.
“You’re shaking,” I observe.
“I’m cold.”
The wood catches, and he feeds the fire patiently, absorbed in the task.
There are two scims strapped to his back, only a few feet away. I can grab one if I’m fast enough.
Do it! Now, while he’s distracted! I lean forward, but just as I’m about to lunge, he turns. I freeze, teetering ridiculously.
“Take this instead.” Veturius takes a dagger from his boot and tosses it to me before turning back to the flames. “It’s clean, at least.”
The dagger’s warm heft is comforting in my hand, and I test the edge on my thumb. Sharp. I sink back against the wall and eye him warily.
The fire eats away at the cold in the room. When it is burning brightly, Veturius unstraps his scims and leans them against the wall, well within my reach.
“I’ll be in there.” He nods to a closed door in the corner of the room, one I’d assumed led to a torture chamber. “That cloak won’t bite, you know. You’re stuck here until dawn. Might as well make yourself comfortable.”
He opens the door and disappears into the bathing chamber beyond. A moment later, I hear water pour into a tub.
The silk of my dress steams in the heat of the fire, and with one eye on the bath door, I let its warmth seep into me. Then I consider Veturius’s cloak. My skirt is ripped to my thigh, and a sleeve of my shirt hangs by a few threads. The laces of my bodice are torn, revealing far too much of me.
I look uneasily toward the bath. He’ll finish soon.
Eventually, I pick up the cloak and wrap it around myself. It is made of thick, finely woven cloth that is softer to the touch than I expect. I recognize the smell—his smell—spice and rain. I inhale deeply before jerking my nose away as the door rattles and Veturius emerges with his bloodied armor and weapons.
He’s scrubbed the mud from his skin and changed into clean fatigues.
“You’ll get tired standing all night,” he says. “You can sit on the bed. Or take the chair.” When I don’t move, he sighs. “You don’t trust me—I get it. But if I wanted to hurt you, I’d already have done it. Please, sit down.”
“I’m keeping the knife.”
“You can have a scim too. I have a pile of weapons I never want to see again. Take them all.”
He drops into the chair and begins cleaning his greaves. I sit stiffly on his bed, ready to bring up the knife if I have to. He is close enough to touch.
He says nothing for a long time, his movements heavy and tired. Beneath the shadow of his mask, his full mouth seems harsh, his jaw unyielding. But I remember his face from the festival. It’s a handsome face, and even the mask can’t hide that. His diamond-shaped Blackcliff tattoo is a dark shadow on the back of his neck, parts of it tinged silver where the metal of his mask cleaves to his skin.
He looks up, sensing my gaze, and then glances quickly away. But not before I see telltale redness in his eyes.