Finn

The next day, I knock on Xander’s bedroom door with a plate of food in my hands.

“Enter,” he calls.

I march inside with my best approximation of the staff’s invisible poise, then fake a curtsy before presenting the requested breakfast: toast with jam, a pastry, and a steaming cup of coffee. His personal steward, a tall, pale man whose name I don’t know, stares at me in blank confusion. I don’t see a single sign of Xander.

“Uh—”

Xander steps out from behind a hinged partition, fixing his tunic, and laughs. “Remind me, did I bet that you would make me breakfast after another six pints?”

I drop...