Chapter Fifteen
The doors to the banquet hall creak open, and the room sprawls out before us.
It expands in grand proportions, wide and towering, with ivory curtains draped elegantly across floor-to-ceiling windows.
Ornate pillars line the walls, wrapped with garlands of delicate red and yellow flowers, and the marble floor gleams beneath us.
The ceiling feels miles above. Hazy pastels trace out continents, oceans and distant lands – a map of the Triumstellar Accord.
Astraloria sits to the north, the largest of the principalities, with a smaller Wrisha clinging to its southern edge. To the southwest, the Three Point Sea cradles Solara, and beyond the borders, the map fades, as if the world outside barely exists.
It feels that way, sometimes. But I know of distant places, watching us from those uncharted edges. Kingdoms of alchemy and rare metals, the Shattered Realms and their pirate fleets and frozen lands where whispers speak of ice and blood magic.
I take in the rest of the banquet hall. In the middle of the room is a long table arranged with candelabras. I can see name cards, one for each of the forty-eight competitors. A few smaller circular tables hug the edges of the room, swathed with golden tablecloths.
At the far end, on a raised platform, sits the grandest table of them all, lording over all the others.
It’s the royal table, reserved for the rulers of the principalities and their families.
A few of them have already claimed their thrones and sit silently, surveying us as we shuffle through the doors.
High Prince Seraphius of Astraloria holds court in the centre of the royal table, a rather bulky man with a red face who radiates good cheer.
To his left sits High Princess Seleneira of Wrisha, a vision of copper skin and silky black hair, and, to his right, High Prince Hevio of Solara is shooting a piercing stare at the crowd.
Taron and I make our way across the room, scanning the competitors’ table until we spot the name cards marked Maeve Speck and Wren Hull.
I take my seat, moving forward slightly as competitors shuffle past in search of their name cards. There’s a squeal at the end of the table, where a pair of girls wearing matching butter-yellow headscarves are celebrating being seated next to Cyrus.
They fawn over his name card, ridiculously bickering over who gets to speak to him first when he gets here.
The commotion draws probing stares from the surrounding competitors – a loved-up couple holding hands, a pair dressed in flamboyant outfits of dyed feathers, and a petite brunette nervously rolling her thumbs, barely listening to the ramblings of her greasy-haired teammate beside her.
“Oh, hey,” Kara chirps as she and Savannah sit down opposite us. “Looks like we’re stuck together.”
What are the odds… I smile as best I can, but, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Taron doesn’t even look up.
“Isn’t this place something else?” says Kara, still intent on making friendly conversation. Her eyes wander upward, marvelling at the over-the-top intricacies of the map on the ceiling first, then shifting to the fine crockery and silverware before her.
“Watch out, folks,” Savannah sing-songs, “if you touch the wrong fork, they might just execute you on the spot.”
Someone laughs at the comment as they sit down beside her. A tall, androgynous person with crimson waves that match the fiery colour of their bedazzled blazer.
“Good one,” they say. “Not that I was eavesdropping.”
“Lying already? Shame on you,” says the guy next to them, with near-identical red hair and freckles. “I’m Gunther, and this is my twin, Gigi. To clarify, they were most definitely eavesdropping.”
Gigi rolls their eyes. “Anyway … I’m so ready for this banquet. How long do you think we’ll have to wait for the food to come out?”
Taking a cue from Gigi, I drape my serviette across my lap, hoping my lack of table etiquette doesn’t make me stick out like a sore thumb. A glance at Taron reveals his serviette in a crumpled heap beside his plate – the horror.
I jab him with my elbow, hoping for some semblance of conformity, but he responds with an eye roll. Real mature.
“Hi there, I don’t think we’ve met,” Kara remarks, extending a hand past Savannah to the twins.
Gigi lunges forward to shake her hand, almost sending a candelabra on a nosedive, but Savannah quickly intercepts it.
“Whoops, my bad,” Gigi says with a chuckle. “You must be Kara DeLange. Word on the street is you’re the one to beat.”
Kara’s artificial laughter rings through the air. The two engage in a handshake. “I don’t know about that,” she says. “But we’ll see, I guess.”
As Gigi pulls their hand back, the candelabra takes another tumble and this time falls on to the tablecloth.
For a second, it looks like the cloth might go up in flames, but Gigi calmly waves their hand and the flames are instantly snuffed out, leaving behind only a singed black spot.
“Nobody saw that, right?” Gigi asks, eyes gleaming like coals.
“Saw what?” Gunther moves some of the flower arrangements to camouflage the damage. “There. It’s like nothing ever happened.”
I smile along with the rest of the table, but Taron’s face is carved from stone. He shifts uncomfortably beside me, then I realize another couple has claimed their seats on the other side of him.
“Hi, I’m Rhius,” says a guy with a deep voice. He’s made even more intimidating by his large frame and shaved head. “And this is my friend and business partner, Mei.”
Mei smiles and leans forward beside Rhius. She shakes her green-streaked fringe out of her face before taking us in, eyes fluttering seductively when she sees Taron.
He keeps her gaze longer than expected.
So, that’s the kind of girl he finds attractive? She’s pretty, with dark hair like mine, but I don’t have her almond eyes and porcelain complexion.
When Mei winks at Taron, I look away before I can gauge his reaction. Suddenly, my shoulders feel too exposed in this dress. My back curls in as I try to make myself smaller.
“You’re business partners?” Gigi asks. “What business?”
“We own a crystal shop in Solara. I’m an Emo, so I infuse the crystals with energies, and Mei uses her talents as a Flora to brew tonics.”
Another Emo? I don’t know why I’m so surprised. It’s not like I expected to be the only one. Though I guess I hoped I would be – that way there wouldn’t be anyone to compare my talents against.
“Sounds amazing,” I say, forcing the compliment. “Do you have one crystal in particular that people tend to favour?”
“We’ve been experimenting with sunflare quartz lately,” Mei says. “It captures the essence of the sun and, when harnessed properly, the crystal can be used as an energy supplement.”
“They’re incredibly popular, actually,” Rhius adds, brandishing a small orange crystal on a rope around his neck. “Students go wild for them. Gives them all the energy they need after a night out.”
“How about you?” Mei asks, clearly directing her question more to Taron than at me. “What’s your story?”
I wince as the group’s attention shifts on to us. My luck seems to hold, though. Just then, a hush blankets the room, stifling conversation as everyone turns to the door.
Cyrus stands there. He holds the space like the air itself bends to his will.
His golden overcoat gleams under the chandeliers, and I can’t help but notice the soft glow of his skin, how his dark eyes seem even more striking tonight, with his hair pulled away from his face in a low bun at the nape of his neck.
We all watch as the Young Prince marches towards the competitor’s table, Gideon following closely behind him.
Cyrus slows as he approaches us, his eyes flaring with furious recognition. He wrinkles his nose as he studies Taron. Then he gives a curt laugh.
“You?” he says, practically spitting the word. “Very funny. As if you’re a contestant in the Reckoning.”
Taron stares back at him. “I don’t see what’s so funny about it.”
“Don’t you? Well, looks like winning this tournament will be a piece of cake, after all.” Cyrus dusts something non-existent from the back of his sleeve, then scans me with a sly gaze. “Look at you, Freckles. Where was this dress in the tavern? I would’ve gladly shown you my sigil.”
Then he knocks his servant on the back. “I’ll see you in a bit, Gideon. I’m not sitting with this riff-raff.” He strides to the royal table at the back of the hall, leaving the disappointed protests of the two fawning girls in his wake.
It’s odd, observing the other competitors. Most of them radiate excitement, yapping away like this is the peak of their existence. It’s all laughs and banter now, sure, but don’t any of them realize why we’re here?
The dignitaries at the surrounding tables are eyeballing us like we’re racehorses, sizing us up to figure out which steed they’ll be placing their bet on.
Those girls. Don’t they recognize that, come tomorrow morning, the handsome Young Prince they’re so shamelessly fawning over won’t think twice about slitting their throats?
My chest tightens. I force my attention down to my plate. It’s an overwhelming reality, and it’s only really hitting me now.
I could die out there, and Elara would be lost for ever.
No. I won’t let that happen.
“Maeve, are you OK?” Gigi leans in closer, and it takes me a second to realize they’re talking to me. “You look a little pale.”
I manage a nod, but my throat is dry. The room sways, my surroundings blurring. It’s as if the banquet hall itself is closing in on me, the ogling dignitaries suffocating me under their scrutiny.
A moment later, High Prince Seraphius stands, and the low mutters of the crowd taper off into dead quiet.
“Thank you all for gracing us with your presence.” He beams at the guests seated around the hall. I follow the crowd in gently tapping a spoon against the side of my glass.