DHERIS?!

Chell stepped forward half a step, ears already perking up in determination. She opened her mouth to volunteer, her voice was soft, her manners impeccable when she wanted them to be, and she’d spent enough quiet evenings in aristocratic parties to know how to hold a fork with grace.

“I’ll do it,” Chell said quietly. “I can–”

The old maid didn’t let her finish.

“No,” she said, cutting the words off cleanly. Her eyes moved to Dheris. “You.”

Dheris blinked once.

Chell froze. Elizabeth’s smile faltered for a split second before she **** it back into place. The two of them locked eyes across the short distance, wide, panicked, the same thought flashing between them without a word.

Chell and Elizabeth could have passed this test blindfolded. Chell with her careful, polite movements; Elizabeth with her performer’s grace, but Dheris?

Dheris, who ate like she was hungry for days, who tore bread with her hands and drank from tankards instead of goblets, who had once broken a tavern table in half just by slamming her fist down in laughter.

It felt deliberate. Almost as if the dungeon wanted them to fail.

Back in the master’s chamber, deep inside the palace where mirrors lined every surface, the dark-furred cat lounged in his oversized chair. One clawed finger traced lazy circles on the armrest as he watched the crystal screen. The four women’s faces filled the view, Genevive’s fixed face, Chell’s ears pinned back, Elizabeth’s **** smile cracking at the edges, Dheris standing there looking flabbergasted.

He laughed, a sharp, childish bark that bounced off the mirrored walls.

“Of course I told her to choose the big one,” he said to himself in the empty room, tail flicking with delight. “Where’s the fun if they succeed too easily?”

Dheris, ever the proud warrior, didn’t hesitate long. She squared her shoulders, rolled them once like she was preparing for combat instead of dinner and strode to the table. The crystal chair scraped back smoothly as she pulled it out, too hard, the sound louder than it needed to be. She sat down with a solid thump that made the goblets shiver.

Confidence radiated off her in waves. Courage too. She planted her elbows on the table for half a second before remembering herself and dropping them again. Her scarred hands rested on the edge of the crystal surface, fingers flexing like they were itching for a sword hilt instead of silverware.

She looked at the array in front of her: three forks of different sizes, two spoons, a knife with a pearl handle, a folded napkin shaped like a swan, a row of crystal glasses filled with liquids in shades from clear to deep ruby.

Dheris stared at it all like it was a puzzle she could intimidate into submission.

She had absolutely no idea where to start.

The seated maids resumed eating in their silent, perfect rhythm. The older maid took her place at the head again, folded her hands and watched Dheris with the same unchanging expression.

“Begin,” she said.

Food appeared on the table without warning or fanfare.

One moment the crystal plates were bare; the next they held steaming portions of roast meat sliced thin, glazed vegetables arranged in neat rows, bread still warm from some unseen oven, small bowls of soup with herbs floating on top. Goblets refilled themselves to the brim with dark red wine. The scent hit hard, savory, rich, impossible to ignore after days of trail rations and hunger.