Page 71 of Poisoned Empire

“That’s your problem, Burgundy. No bloody curiosity. Guy in a mask lives in the same house, and you don’t even ask his name. Whatever they did to you really messed you up.”

Burgundy stared blankly at Selene.

“You’re creepy as hell when you do that, you know? When you get un-fucked, I hope you’re as much of an asshole as the magister is. We’ll spit on his grave together. No, stop looking at me like you’re deciding which expression you’re supposed to use. Gods, this is why I don’t talk to you. I’m leaving now, goodbye.”

“Have a pleasant evening.”

Selene spotted Iliana near the refreshments and nonchalantly made her way there. She’d been warned against too much public interaction between herself and Iliana, but Selene missed her. It had been getting harder and harder to get a spare moment with her friend as the pace and duration of these damn parties had ratcheted up in anticipation of this evening’s announcement. Iliana was also spending an inordinate amount of time in the company of the strategos, which boded ill for their plans to sail away once this was over. Selene couldn’t shake the fear something painful was stalking her, waiting for her to slow down so it could rip her apart. Her need for comfort was like an ache.

“Domina Roxane, how lovely to see you here,” Selene intoned prettily.

Iliana’s eyes sparkled back at her.

“Indeed. And what a wonderful night it is. I haven’t much time, but I wanted to tell you that I’ve been proposed to! By Marduk! And I said yes!” Iliana replied gleefully.

The air rushed out of her lungs as her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. The blow hurt more than she’d expected. Would she be leaving Lethe alone? Selene refused to linger in Nadioch like an unwelcome guest of a happy couple, no matter how much she loved one half of it. Her lonely future stretched out before her.

“Domina? A moment of your time?” A dashing, dark-skinned soldier in his ceremonial kit approached Iliana and extended his arm.

“Of course, Julius.” Iliana smiled back at him before turning to Selene. “I’ll see you soon, Domina Milena.” She winked as the soldier led her away.

Fucking strategos! She really should have poisoned him. Now she was going to be alone. Again. Iliana was clearly over the moon for the meat-head and there was nothing she could do or say that would change it—short of murder. That damn, gnawing rat tore another chunk out of her heart. And yet, despite her pain, it felt like doom still awaited her. What in the hells was wrong with her?

Selene searched for Belisarius. Perhaps being in his arms would provide some small comfort. He was in conversation with a group of older women—magistrae, if the sheer number of gems dripping from their persons were any indication. Selene put on her fake smile and prepared to wade into the melee, though the charade made her feel fragile, like frayed rope forced to hold an impossible weight. Before she could interrupt the congregation, Nicephorus stepped into her path, grabbed her hand and dragged her into a dance.

“Don’t harass the magistrae. The prince will require their help when this affair is over. One will likely be his future mother-in-law. He doesn’t need you mucking about in the affairs of the empire.”

“Don’t threaten the servants. Don’t poison the poison mages. Don’t call the dominae weak snobs. Don’t speak with Iliana in public. Gods, do you ever stop nagging?” Selene mimicked him in the least flattering way. His scowl had her grinning. If comfort was off the table, maybe some sparring with the prickly praetor would soothe her.

“I wouldn’t need to nag if you were even half as cultured as the servant who cleans the latrines.”

“There were latrines? I’ve been shitting in the garden this whole time. Silly me.”

Nicephorus’ face briefly twisted in horror before he realised the ruse. That he’d mistaken her jibe for truth spoke to how he regarded her. She hadn’t realised her opinion of him could get any lower, but here he was, lowering the bar yet again.

“If you weren’t required to appear in public, I would have you whipped.”

“Is that what tickles your fancy, Praetor? It figures someone as repressed as you would-”

“Shut up, you swine,” Nicephorus hissed. “When this affair is over, you had best run for the docks rather than stroll. Our agreement covers only your payment, not the condition you need to be in to receive it.”

His grip turned punishing on hers. She dug her nails into his hand in retaliation.

“It’s always threats with you. You know the only real threat in this ballroom? Me. Your spies are too afraid to get within spitting distance. I’m having a great time finding new ways to incapacitate them. And here you are, acting like you’re better than me, all the while knowing that the only man you consider your better can’t keep his hands off the poison swine. The situation isdelicious.”

Red crept up the praetor’s neck. Victory.

“Crow all you like. The crown prince has never allowed himself to be swayed by the wiles of a woman, and, for the good of the empire, he never will. One of those weak snobs, as you call them, will be his wife, have his children and rule Lethe with him. All while you become no more than a distasteful memory. You’re nothing but an uncultured, ignorant troll without enough knowledge of politics to qualify as a stable boy, let alone a lowly concubine. In every way that matters to the prince, you are inadequate.”

Before Selene could reply in kind, the music stopped, and Belisarius made his way up to a throne set on a dais. Her anger simmered beneath the surface of a polite smile cracking at the corners. What a shit night this had proved to be, and it was only half-over.

The emperor had joined the show, seated to the right of the throne in one of his own, his face a stern mask. At least she had Darius’ company to look forward to.

Belisarius cleared his throat.

“First, I wish to thank everyone for gathering here tonight. As you know, this bride show has been my honour to host. Not only have my talented bureaucrats and soldiers found wives, but I too have met my match here.” The crowd murmured politely before he continued, “Please greet my fiancée, and your future empress, Princess Consort Milena Amethyst.”

Polite clapping accompanied the lethal stares and shocked murmurs of a great many men and women in attendance. Zoe Emerald’s face had turned ashen, eyes wide. A servant stealthily removed the wine glass from her trembling fingers before she lost her grip. Magistra Emerald in particular looked like she was plotting murder. Selene shrugged off her immediate fear, straightening her spine and plastering on a beatific smile, all the while imagining everyone writhing in pain beneath her feet. Some congratulated her, most simply did their level best not to bare their fangs. Nicephorus wore a politely bland expression.

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