The Guardian gave the prince a nod, then spoke in a gravelly voice that gave me goose bumps. “Not her.” Margot blinked. “Excuse me?” “Her.” The Guardian’s eyes flicked in my direction, and the whole room followed his gaze. To me. “Prince Zavier will marry her,” he declared. “Tonight. As the bride prize for killing your marroweels.”
Ohh well that’s a fun change of plans
