Page 32 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

I manage some sleep, worn out from the day’s fighting, the emotional turmoil, and more than enough drama to allow my body to rest, if not my mind.

Though I’m already used to being plagued by dreams of my mother’s death, none come, and when I wake, I thank whatever power that controls such things that I was allowed one night of clean sleep.

There is no doubt in my mind that I’m going to need it.

The private bath invites me, and I can’t resist, sinking into the deep water, scrubbing myself almost raw when I realize I still have some of the blood of my opponents on me despite my short visit to the bath at the Dome, missed flecks of them a reminder I no longer wish to carry physically, though I’ll hold them in my mind for a long time yet.

But like other battles, they, too, will fade, and I’ll find peace.

As soon as I’m able to leave this place and do what I’m supposed to.

Someone has taken my armor when I return to the bedroom, leaving behind a robe and the collection of clothing that awaits.

I’m furious with myself that I failed to safeguard it, because this feels far too much like a repeat of what happened in Winderose, and I know better.

Why did I forget the penchant of servants to take what doesn’t belong to them?

I rummage through the fabrics and come upon a pair of trousers that balloon outward, cuffed at the ankles and tying off at the waist, much like the ones Yiratille wore, though the matching top is ridiculously tiny and shows far too much skin.

Not that I’m prudish, of course. I’ve worn less for worse reasons, but I have no desire to share anything at all with this false god and his court, and would prefer to drape myself in yards of fabric if that’s the opposite of what their current fashion demands.

If it weren’t for the heat, of course, so I grimace and concede, at least a little, one of the selections only exposing a thin, vertical line of midriff as I button the sort of waistcoat that hangs down to my knees, sleeveless and embroidered to stiffness.

It fits well enough that I can fight in it, the trousers billowing but sufficient for my needs.

I choose bare feet over the ridiculous curved-toed shoes of silk that won’t hold up to a short walk, let alone a battle, and don’t care what anyone thinks.

The second I get my sandals back, I’ll be sleeping with them to ensure I have something on my feet I can rely on when the time comes to run.

Escape is going to be my only option at this point, I’m sure of it, grimly planning ahead, and trying not to feel bitter about all the time I’ve wasted already when I should have just done so in the first place.

If this is where I was going to end up ultimately, I’ve played right into Hallick’s hands yet again, and I’m getting very tired of feeling like I’m being moved about a playing board like the pawn I’ve always refused to be.

While being a good little playing piece in this game that I will never fully understand.

The dragon is absent, of course, because why would she surface to help me when I need her? Resentful of this entire situation, it’s impossible not to snarl at the young man with the oiled hair tied tightly in a ponytail who bows to me when he enters my quarters without knocking.

He’s not alone, of course, his shadowy protector’s dark eyes watchful.

“Highness,” he says. “You are summoned.”

It’s not his fault, his soft, brown eyes anxious when he sees my reaction, and I can only guess I’m as outwardly enraged by that command as I am internally.

But if I’m going to get out of here, I have to learn the layout of the temple, and the only way to do that is with an escort. For the time being, at least.

“Lead the way,” I snarl, stalking after him, hating that I’m weaponless as I pass the guards at the door.

The black-clad warrior leads, taking her place between me and the servant, the others falling in line behind me, sharply enough that I’m certain their training would be sufficient to slow me down if I turned to attack, though I know I could take them out regardless.

She’s a problem, though, one I’ll have to figure out the means to eliminate.

Regardless, could I act without them raising the alarm and bringing more of their number to overwhelm me?

Not worth it, not yet. I need to be patient.

I’ve never felt more impatient in my life.

Maybe the dragon’s need infects me like the tainted power does the Overkingdom, but I’m finding it almost impossible to maintain my composure and focus, to count turns and corridors, feeling hopelessly lost and now even more angry by the time we approach the giant doorway to the Sun God’s throne room again.

I glare at the stylized sun on it while the guards push it open for me, the servant bowing his way out, leaving me to walk through on my own.

It’s clear from their tension that the watching soldiers intend to force me to comply if I don’t proceed.

This would be a glorious moment for an attack, a show of defiance that would end in my death.

I’m picturing them bloodied and screaming at my feet as I stride past them, my bare soles making no sound on the floor, stalking the throne with intent.

The Sun God doesn’t even look up from his conversation with none other than Chancellor Hallick, and I note that I’m far from the only Overkingdom princess here in this cursed place.

Why would I be surprised even for a second to discover Vae of Sarn, the tiny blonde adorned in local attire and wearing it like she was born to it, draped alluringly over the arm of the heir’s throne arm?

Her perky little breasts practically fall out of her shapely top, the fabric forcing them up and outward at Theille, who stares at her chest while she says something to him that I don’t hear.

When she glances at me, it’s without shock or even recognition, and she looks away again as though dismissing me.

I’m guided toward the three other princesses who sit on cushions on the floor to the side of the dais, the dark-haired princess of Costa’s eyebrows rising, whispering to the other two—white-blonde Vishto and strawberry-toned and freckled Fairmount, I forget their first names, so little did they ever mean to me—who have already noticed me.

They, at least, seem floored by my appearance, though I ignore them and turn to stand with my arms crossed over my chest, not bothering to sit.

I won’t be staying long enough to even pretend to try and be comfortable.

Vae’s bubbling laugh makes my stomach churn, revolting me. She flirts so openly with the young heir that her goal is obvious. Of course, Atlas meant nothing at all to her. It’s the position that she finds alluring. How she could find Theille attractive, however, I will never know.

Perhaps power is enough for her. She’s fucked Hallick, after all. Repeatedly.

“A demonstration is in order, Holy Lord,” the Chancellor says in a booming voice, the Sun God nodding. “Come, highnesses, and show the Most Divine your special talents.”

What the fuck is this fresh degradation?

The other princesses rise and move forward, forming a line, obviously prepared for what’s to come. I hold my ground, Vae leaving Theille to join her sister royals at the foot of the dais. Of course, she goes first, holding out her hands to the Sun God with a vulnerable expression on her face.

And breaks into song.

I have to admit, she’s talented, her clear soprano aching in longing and agony, some sort of ballad she’s turned into a weapon she wields as carefully as any sword. I see Isthisahaloun smile at her, fingers steepling in front of him, though Theille appears bored by the performance.

When she’s done, she sweeps into a deep curtsy that flashes everyone above her with that offer of her tits again before stepping back as the next princess walks forward.

Her dance is uninspiring, but she’s beautiful, as all of the selected are.

I note with some cynicism that Hallick only chose the most attractive of the princesses to bring to the Sun God, and while the daughter of Vishto isn’t all that graceful, her long, pale hair swings around her, and she’s well-endowed enough that her chest bounces appealingly with each step.

I can imagine that her pale skin has suffered on the journey, sweat already slick on her ivory skin, but she bears it with fortitude and finishes with a flourish.

Her red face isn’t so pretty anymore, though, when she steps back, panting a bit from the humidity.

I’m as done with this farce as Theille is, for different reasons, looking away when the princess of Fairmount begins reciting poetry in a language the Sun God can’t even understand.

Or can he? He appears to pay attention, and with the dragon’s magic translating for me, I have no idea if somehow Hallick has given the same ability to the other princesses through the stolen power of Neem, or if Isthisahaloun has knowledge of the language of the Overkingdom.

Whatever the case, he’s nodding politely when she’s done, one more to go, the last princess nervous when she launches into her own song.

But I’m no longer paying attention because two things have happened since the performances began.

One, Sheelan has arrived, though she stands off to one side, just in my periphery, forcing me to turn my head to catch her expression.

She does nothing to hide her own dissatisfaction with the proceedings, even if I don’t know what it is specifically that irritates her.

She catches me watching and lowers her eyes, schooling her features to peaceful nothingness again.

So, she hadn’t expected anyone to notice? She looks up again, just for a second.

And winks.

Against my better judgment, I think I like this princess.