[ It's the far too likable to be poisoned people that get poisoned, part of her wants to say, delivered with a fervent nudge of her foot against his shin. Asking Nikolai not to be so daring, even in playful speech alone, over his life is a little like asking the sun not to shine down on them — an impossible feat that demands he go against his very nature. All the same, the spike of dread in her gut — that she has no reason to feel while sprawled across an overly grand bed in an overly grand palace — strikes like a sudden knife to the stomach, uncomfortable and painful.

Another reminder that they are both too in over their heads to ever part ways cleanly, for this not to matter. Even this moment, quiet and peaceful, stolen away in the early pieces of morning. Or as stolen as it can be, she supposes, when tongues are already wagging. Rumors are poison in their own right, experience tells her, seeping into the blood of anyone who deigns to give them any scrap of their attention. ]

It's not the first time I've had to get used to rumors in this place. I can promise you that those were probably worse.

[ Her mouth twists a little too sharply to be comforting, a little too bitterly to be fond of those memories. Zoya's tear-stricken face flickers to life in her mind, a loyal Grisha dismissed so easily, berated for perpetuating them. No matter how precarious their relationship is now, it's another chilling observation she had missed: how carelessly the Darkling had tossed a prized pupil aside when she outstayed her welcome, outlived her use. ]

Do I want to ask what they've been saying?

[ Perhaps it's the same rumors, dressed up differently, floating through these halls. She frowns, even as she nibbles at the end of her toast, a little self-conscious about getting crumbs in Ravkan royalty's bedsheets. ]