My eyes remained fixed on my father. His expression was calm, even bored, but I couldn't ignore the way his gaze lingered on me with a sharper edge than before. With sons, such scrutiny was expected—heirs were groomed and watched constantly, their every move weighed against the ever-present threat of regicide. But I was his only daughter. Ultimately, I couldn't take the throne, even if I wanted it.
So why did he seem so guarded when it came to matters involving me?
It hadn't always been this way. Before his return from the director's testing facility, his demeanor toward me had been distant but predictable. Whatever he saw or learned there changed something in him. That was over five years ago, yet the shadow of that trip lingered, a constant, silent wedge between us. What could he have seen that made him this way with me?
"We will be traveling to the Coliceme this year to observe the new fighters," he said abruptly, breaking the silence.
I blinked, confused. Was this why he'd called me down here? It felt trivial, a waste of time. I hesitated but decided to speak.
"Father, it isn't my place to question your wisdom," I began carefully, my tone measured. "But don't we do that every year? Why treat this year as something different?"
His expression didn't change, but there was a pause before he responded. "Because this year, I have a task for you." His voice carried a weight that immediately commanded my attention. "You are to assess the fighters and select a few to be groomed as bodyguards for your younger brother. Consider this a test."
I opened my mouth to reply but stopped myself, letting his words settle.
"A test…" I repeated softly, mulling over what it might entail. "And if I pass it?"
I threw the question out lightly, feigning nonchalance. I knew how my father operated. He was always more inclined to grant rewards when approached directly, and my intuition proved correct this time.
"If you succeed," he said, his tone cool and deliberate, "you may choose one or two of the fighters for your own retinue."
The offer didn't seem particularly generous at first glance. But considering my current situation—where the only bodyguard assigned to me owed loyalty to my father, not me—the prospect of having guards who answered to no one else was more valuable than it sounded. Still, before I fully committed, I needed to understand what I stood to lose.
"What happens if I choose the wrong fighters?" I asked, my tone just as light, masking the uneasiness creeping into my chest.
His eyes bore into mine, unflinching. "Our family has no use for princesses who are a drain. If you fail, I'll have you married off to a neighboring kingdom for a dowry."
The words hung in the air like a blade over my head.
His gaze never wavered, and I could tell he meant every syllable. While there were fates far worse than being married off to the highest bidder, the thought of being reduced to a mere transaction—a broodmare to secure an alliance—made my stomach churn.
"I understand, Father," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Then I'll make sure to do my best in this task. When will we depart?"
He regarded me with that same unreadable expression before replying. "We leave at midday. Your attire for the journey has been packed."
There was a brief pause before he continued, his tone less heavy but no more comforting. "I recommend you eat now. This trip will not allow for delays, especially with the winter snows approaching. If the mountain pass closes, we will have no choice but to take the Dire Forest."
The mention of the Dire Forest sent a faint chill down my spine, but I masked it with a polite nod. His words lacked their usual weight of looming judgment, but even in this moment of relative calm, his presence was suffocating.
I tried to shift the conversation as I ate, though the food did little to distract me. Raising my head, I glanced at the heavyset man seated to my father's left. He seemed utterly at ease, stuffing his face with a distinct lack of the refinement one would expect from a noble.
"Sire," I began carefully, my tone light but curious, "I seem to not know your name, but you must be someone important to sit here. Might I inquire who you are?"
He paused mid-bite, dabbing at his lips with a napkin before responding. "Oh, me? I'm Thorn. I don't have a last name, so Your Majesty can simply call me that." His tone was polite, yet there was an undercurrent of defiance in his words, subtle but unmistakable. "I do believe we've met—quite a number of times, in fact. I am the noble in charge of the coliseum, though I understand your attention may have been on more pressing matters during those occasions."
His words, though couched in courtesy, felt like a jab. I arched a brow, letting the edge creep into my voice as I countered, "How is it that you only have a first name? Only slaves lack a family name."
Thorn chuckled, his tone laced with mock admiration. "Your Majesty's intellect is as sharp as they say! I was born a slave, but His Majesty, in his infinite benevolence, granted me freedom and much more when I earned the title of champion in the arena."
I felt my stomach churn. A slave? Sitting in the royal palace, dining beside my father, no less? The thought was revolting. For a moment, I felt my mask slip—just a flicker of the disgust threatening to rise—but I quickly composed myself, forcing my attention to the frail figure seated to my father's right.
"And you, Lord Dutchmund?" I asked, my voice regaining its practiced poise. "How have you been?"
Anything to shift the topic away from the ex-slave playing the part of nobility. The sourness in my stomach had grown, and I doubted I could stomach another bite as long as Thorn was part of the conversation.