Evan woke to sunlight and the distinct feeling that he was being watched.
Not by people—he was getting used to that, unfortunately—but by the room itself. The walls seemed to lean in slightly, curious about his existence. The canopy above his (new, heavily reinforced, triple-blessed, and probably overcompensating) bed rustled without any breeze. Even the sunlight coming through the window appeared to pause on the sill, as if checking if he was decent before entering.
"This is getting ridiculous," he told the ceiling. "I know I'm a magical anomaly. I accept that. But do we have to be so dramatic about it? Can't we just have a normal morning where nothing glows or moves on its own?"
The ceiling, being a ceiling, did not reply. But a dust mote drifting through a sunbeam did a little loop-the-loop before continuing its journey downward, showing off.
Evan sat up. The bed groaned—a deep, resonant sound like a whale clearing its throat—but held. Progress. Multiple reinforcements and blessings were apparently doing their job.
He was halfway through attempting to decipher the fifteen different fastenings on his nightshirt (apparently, medieval nobility believed buttons were for peasants and had invented an entire alternative system just to be difficult) when a knock sounded at the door.
"It's open!" he called, wrestling with what appeared to be a silk tassel that served no discernible purpose except to mock him.
The door opened to reveal Emma, holding a tray. She was already dressed, looking irritatingly alert for what had to be dawn-o'clock. Her hair was braided back, and she had the expression of someone who'd been awake for hours and was enjoying every minute of it.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," she said, kicking the door shut behind her. "I brought breakfast. Also, news. Mostly bad."
"You lead with the bad news? Before coffee?"
"We have something better than coffee." She set the tray on a table that immediately developed a fine tremor but held steady. "It's called 'wakeleaf tea.' Tastes like someone boiled a forest and added regret, but it'll put hair on your chest."
"I don't want hair on my chest. I want caffeine. There's a difference, and it's an important one."
"Same thing, different plant." She poured from a pot that steamed in three distinct colors—blue, green, and something that wasn't quite either. "Now, the bad news: The Guild Council wants to see you."
Evan accepted the cup she offered. The liquid inside swirled slowly, forming patterns that looked suspiciously like runes. He sniffed it. It smelled like pine needles and ambition and something that might have been desperation. "Are they going to try to measure me again? Because I broke all of Lina's toys yesterday. And she seemed okay with it, but I still feel bad."
"Not measure. Interview. Assess. Possibly poke with sticks."
"Charming." He took a sip. The tea tasted like pine needles and ambition and also like someone had distilled the concept of "alertness" into liquid form. His eyes snapped open. His spine straightened. He felt like he could run a marathon, balance a budget, and solve world hunger all before lunch. "Okay. This is... actually not terrible. I hate that it's not terrible."
"Told you. Now drink up. The council waits for no man, especially not one who destroyed a dragon-proof bed."
"Everyone knows about the bed?"
"Everyone knows about everything here. It's a palace. Gossip is the only entertainment." She grabbed a pastry from the tray. "Also, there's a betting pool on how long it'll take you to break something in the council chamber."
Evan stared at her. "There's a betting pool?"
"Current odds are three-to-one that you'll make it through the whole meeting without incident. I put five silver on you breaking something in the first five minutes."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I believe in you, cousin. Just not in your ability to not break things."
***