Chapter Thirty
“ C ongratulations on passing the first test.”
Josiah’s voice booms from the arena’s balcony as he scans the remaining faces. “It appears all but seven of you have returned. Impressive.”
The trek back to Bathara was a blur. We rose with the sun and pressed on with little rest, realizing we were short on time for the trip back to the academy.
My mind—for one reason or another—was lost out at sea, and I was too tired, groggy, and achy to attempt to reel it back to shore.
By the time we arrived—the moon just cresting above the Hills of Thanicka—I felt like a shell of myself.
Gray had already reached Bathara by the time Marcella and I returned. His face had slackened with relief at the sight of us, then broke into a proud smile when he realized we hadn’t come back empty-handed.
Now, the five captains are arranged on a tiered dais that has appeared in the center of the arena. Much like when they were on the mezzanine, they sit in front of their aggregates’ emblems, waiting to begin the first judgement.
Kiran again wears a black tunic trimmed with crimson. He rests his cheek against his fist, watching the examinees with an idle smile. When his eyes rove to me, that idle smile spreads to a full-fledged smirk, and he winks.
Finlay, in stark contrast, sits impossibly straight, his muscles stiff and rigid, with stony features that would make one think he has a permanent sour smell stuffed into his nostrils.
Next to him is Arden, who sits attentively, wearing a flowing white shirt tucked into cloth pants, and next to her sits Nuha, dressed in purple, her onyx hair twisted into braids. She appears calm—composed.
Though I know how effective a facade can be.
My eyes flick to her fingers. Still no ring.
And then there is Draven, who watches the group with folded arms, his expression—per usual—entirely inscrutable.
The cream of his hemp shirt accentuates his sandy-beige skin, and it helps soften his otherwise rough features.
His eyes seem fixed on something. I trace his line of sight, and I’m surprised to find them locked on a clean-shaven, blonde examinee who appears oddly familiar.
An examinee Gray seems to notice at the same moment I do.
A muscle in Gray's jaw flickers, and I blink at him curiously. I know Gray well enough to recognize when he’s masking his features. But…what prompted it? The blonde-haired man? Why?
“I’m sure most of you are eager to rest,” Josiah says, his beige robe draped loosely over his shoulders.
“So I will keep this brief. Everyone present in this room—save myself and your future captains—should have an essence flower. One by one, you will line up and present your flower to the captains. I leave judgements to them.”
With that, Josiah turns and disappears into the shadows beyond the balcony’s threshold.
Finlay rises and clears his throat. “You will either be cleared to continue in the exam or rejected. If rejected, you may sleep in your quarters tonight but are expected to depart Bathara at dawn.” His gaze sweeps slowly across the room, and I swear it lingers on me a second longer than the others.
For a fleeting moment, I think I catch an actual scowl on his face at the sight of me.
“Now then.” He claps his hands together.
“Nobility, line up on the left. Everyone else, to the right.”
Kiran jerks his cheek from his fist. “Surely you’re joking.”
Finlay pins him with an icy glare. “I am not.”
“Come on, Finlay,” Arden drawls soothingly from her chair next to him. “That really isn’t necessary.”
“We will uphold tradition,” he hisses in response.
“Bathara’s traditions are antiquated. There’s no need to judge them separately,” Arden counters.
A few examinees shift on their feet. Most, however, hold their chins high in the air, claiming what they were given, some even already migrating left.
“Not to mention,” Kiran adds, “they’re also pointless and rooted in no justifiable merit. We didn’t do it last year. Or the year before that. Why now?”
Finlay’s cold, merciless gaze slides toward Marcella and me as he replies, “Two years ago, there were only those with titles, and last year, the untitled didn’t make it past the first test. This year, there is a rather unprecedented number of…commoners.” The distaste sits thick on his tongue.
Kiran frowns at Finlay. “Why should that matter?”
Finlay’s jaw flickers, but it is Nuha who declares, “Tradition is tradition. Without it, there is no order. No stability.” Her words are spoken with a simple logic—calm yet firm.
“Past records indicate this is how our predecessors handled exams with mixed blood. It is not our job to change the ways of old, merely to uphold them.”
Finlay dips his chin in agreement. “And this is why Nuha is captain of the Philator aggregate. Nobility on the left. Everyone else on the right. Now .”
Kiran slumps a little in his chair and mumbles something incoherent under his breath.
The masses begin to scatter, the majority heading left.
I make it no more than three steps before that blonde-haired man from earlier stands in front of me, blocking my way.
“I recognize you,” he drawls through a sharp smirk, wagging a finger at me.
His dirty-blonde hair is clipped neatly and slicked back.
He possesses eyes the color of jade and a strong nose.
Actually, if it hadn’t been for the smug condescension tainting his face—that appears to permanently ruin his face—I may have even considered him attractive.
But… why does he look so familiar?
I arch a brow. “And do you want a prize for your accomplishment?”
He clicks his tongue and sneers. “Servants have no business speaking to highborns with that kind of tone. Especially not servants good only for a quick fuck. Though, they have no business frequenting Bathara either, and that seems to have evaded you.” He sweeps his eyes along my body—head-to-toe—and frowns.
“Someone from House Fjolla would never degrade nobility by intermixing us with the likes of you.”
I’m too focused working out how he knew of my background as a night attendant to notice Gray stepping beside me.
“You do not speak another word to her,” he seethes with as much civility as one can while fuming. “Mind your tongue, and go to your line.”
The man grins at Gray, and there is a strange familiarity in the gesture. “Oh,” he sings, seemingly delighted. “Forgive me. Have I offended your family’s pet?”
My brows wrinkle. How does he know about that, too? Not that I’m actually the Nightenjoy’s pet or anything, but he somehow knows enough to comment on my relationship with them.
Gray’s jaw clenches. “I’m not doing this with you, Huxley. Just walk away and leave us be.”
Huxley ?
Does Gray actually know him?
Huxley pouts, his lips curling mockingly. “Why should I? After all, she and I do have history. Perhaps I’ve missed her. Perhaps I’ve fallen madly in love with her after our glorious night together spent fuc—”
Like a flash of lightning across a stormy sky, Gray grabs a fistful of Huxley’s tunic, his voice a low, dangerous warning. “By the gods, if you say another word about her, I’ll escort you to Merikh myself.”
Huxley’s brows flick up. “Such uncharacteristic behavior for you. Hasn’t your father raised you to be more…civilized?” He chuckles. “How odd to see you throw his teachings out the window for some…” He slides his eyes to me, and a sneer curls his lip. “Servant whore.”
Gray’s eyes flicker a shade of gold as he yanks Huxley forward, gold shimmering to life underneath his skin.
I blink at the sight .
That’s new.
“Just because I choose a path of peace does not mean I’m without the power to end you. I’ll show you just how uncivilized I can be.”
A challenging smirk curls on Huxley’s lips. “You think so?”
“Want to try me?”
And suddenly the realization hits me like a blow. I know why Huxley seemed so familiar…
Oh, no.
Oh gods, no .
I’ve entertained him. Fully. Without sleeping tonics.
Huxley, as if sensing my realization, flicks his jade-colored eyes to me, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, come now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about me?
” He snickers, shaking his head. “You would think a servant would remember bedding a member from House Rangard— especially when that person is Lord Rangard’s son, presiding lord of the southern Erandor territories and a member of King Erasmus’s royal council. ”
The shock buzzes like static in my chest, but I force myself to stand tall, lifting my chin. “I assure you, of all those I’ve entertained, those are the least impressive accomplishments.”
Huxley’s laugh is sharp—defiant. Wrenching free from Gray’s grip, he comments, “It seems your famed bloodline failed to teach her manners. Why is that, cousin?”
Cousin?!
As in, Gray’s cousin?
Before I can process the revelation, a lethal voice cuts through the air behind me.
“Find your lines, or find yourself eliminated from these exams.” Draven’s tone is an icy blade, ready to strike. He towers over me in a firm stance, assuming every daunting inch of his height, his arms folded over his chest.
To my surprise, Huxley immediately submits, inclining his head to Draven before sauntering to the other side of the room, where he cuts to the very front of the line. And something a lot like disgust bubbles in my stomach.
I’ve never really allowed myself to think too deeply about what I’ve done with my body over the years—perhaps because it gives me some illusion of autonomy. But seeing Huxley outside of Keziah, realizing he’s been privy to parts of me he does not deserve…
I have not and will not feel shame for my past, but this moment is certainly the closest I’ve come.
Another tiny fissure cracks open behind my chest.
When I turn back, Draven is already seated. He hunches forward, resting his chin on his interlocked hands, his eyes pinned on me and Gray.
And for a few, slow-passing seconds, I feel too disoriented to move.