Chapter 11
As we’re guided toward the residential wings, the guards lead us down a corridor that gradually transforms – the neutral arena walls give way to red-veined marble as we enter the Mars wing.
I notice the architectural shift right away. The corridors narrow here, forcing us into single file. We pass through security checkpoints, blast doors that could seal the wing off entirely, guards in red and black who snap to attention as we approach, their eyes scanning us before granting passage.
Bronze fixtures line the walls, and through arched doorways I catch glimpses of common areas decorated in deep crimsons and golds. Martian aides lounge and socialize, dressed in the usual black and red uniforms.
The guards leading us gesture to our adjacent bedchamber doors before retreating down the corridor.
Both chambers are at the end of the deepest corridor, carved into the arena’s foundational level where the walls are thickest. Through Zevran’s briefly open doorway, I glimpse his room: carved stone walls inlaid with veins of red metal, and a ceiling showing the surface of Mars in real time with its dust storms and ancient cities.
His door is heavier than mine, reinforced with visible blast plating.
My own chamber carries the same aesthetic, but softened. The walls are pale sandstone, and the bed is draped in fabric the colour of rust and clay. A window looks out over training grounds below.
“One hour until dinner,” Zevran says from his doorway. “I’ll come for you.”
I nod, and we retreat to our separate rooms.
I choose a long black dress from my bag, with red embroidery tracing the neckline and sleeves in patterns that echo Martian architecture, while gold accents at the waist and hem catch the light like molten metal. It’s beautiful and severe all at once, unmistakably House Mars.
As I fasten the clasp at my neck, my fingers tremble. The crescent moon sigil tingles beneath my collarbone, a dull reminder that’s been building all day. I press my palm against it, but the feeling doesn’t fade.
When Zevran knocks precisely an hour later, his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the dress.
“I…” He clears his throat. “That suits you.”
I feel a flash of heat cross my cheeks. “Thank you.”
Zevran wears ceremonial Mars red – a formal jacket with black trim and subtle rank insignia at the collar, paired with dark trousers and boots. Even dressed for diplomacy, he looks ready for war. But as I fall in step beside him, I notice the careful way he moves, the faint tension around his eyes.
The main hall is outfitted for the welcome feast. A massive table dominates the centre, long enough to seat all the House leaders and their advisors, with sections clearly demarcated by their planetary aesthetics.
Mercury’s section gleams with blue and silver lights, Venus drips with amber filigree and flowering vines, Mars blazes with copper and red stone.
The placements seem deliberately randomized, forcing unlikely neighbours together.
Jupiter sits beside Neptune, Saturn across from Uranus.
The room itself soars overhead, walls lined with viewing galleries where lesser cardinals observe from the shadows.
Servants in neutral grey move between the seats with practiced silence, pouring wine and arranging platters.
The ceiling shows a slow rotation of stars, and soft instrumental music drifts from hidden alcoves, something stringed and melancholic that makes the massive space feel almost intimate.
I’m seated between Zevran and an empty chair, Pluto’s absent representative casting a shadow over the entire gathering. The other Houses have already taken their positions, and I can feel their eyes fall on me as we settle in.
Lady Isolde holds court at the Venus end of the table, leaning close to the Saturn advisor as she speaks. Whatever she’s saying makes him laugh, and her dark eyes track his reaction before sliding to the next face at the table, then the next.
Lord Evander leans toward Lady Tavia and her advisor, their conversation barely audible with stern expressions on their faces.
Lord Castor’s voice booms across the hall as he chats up the Neptune section.
“So I told him, ‘You either fall in line … or I’ll have you scrubbing plasma conduits on Ganymede until your hands bleed.’ Best part?
He believed me!” His laugh is sharp and loud.
Commander Kaelix sits rigid in their seat, sparks flickering between their fingers as they stare at him.
Servants begin bringing the first course, crystal plates filled with foods that shimmer and shift colour. I watch Zevran reach for his wine glass. The movement is too rigid, deliberate in a way that suggests concealing discomfort.
He lifts the goblet and takes a measured sip.
I should stay quiet. Keep my head down like I always do.
Survival means invisibility … but what I’m considering in this moment is the opposite of invisible. Watching him suffer when I could stop it feels worse than the fear.
I inhale slowly, then make up my mind on the spot.
I lean towards Zevran, my voice barely audible. “Can I help?”
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. For a moment he stares, and we both realize what I’ve just proposed.
“Not here,” he breathes.
Every instinct screams at me to pull back, to apologize, to retreat into the safety of doing nothing. That’s what I’ve always done. Run. Hide. Survive by staying small.
But something that feels like courage stirs in my chest. Maybe it’s the withdrawal making me reckless, or maybe it’s that I’m tired of watching people hurt when I have the power to stop it. Maybe it’s him specifically, the way he’s tried to protect me even when he shouldn’t.
I let my hand drop below the table. “Trust me.” I mouth to him.
The space beneath the tablecloth is dark, hidden. My fingers find his thigh, and for a moment neither of us moves. The contact feels illicit, dangerous. My heart pounds so hard I’m certain everyone can hear it.
His hand covers mine, warm and solid. Then his fingers shift, guiding my touch to rest against his inner wrist where his pulse beats fast and unsteady.
I let my power flow through the contact. The crescent moon sigil on my chest pulses beneath my dress, hidden by layers of fabric. I feel that familiar rush, moonlight in my veins, the edge of withdrawal blunted.
But there’s something else too. The intimacy of the hidden touch, the way his fingers lace through mine for just a moment before releasing. The risk of discovery makes every second feel … electric.
His breathing steadies. The rigid set of his shoulders eases. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do I.
When I finally withdraw my hand, I feel the absence of his warmth. I reach for my wine glass, trying to appear composed.
Lady Isolde’s eyes flick toward us, and my stomach drops. Her expression doesn’t change, and just as quickly, she’s turning back to her conversation.
Zevran’s knee brushes against mine under the table. When I glance at him, he’s looking straight ahead, the faintest smile on his lips.
Just then, a server approaches Lord Castor with a wine pitcher and accidentally bumps his shoulder.
“Careful there, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice carrying. “In Jupiter’s military, we don’t tolerate mistakes. Ever seen what happens to soldiers who can’t follow simple protocols? Let’s just say the outer moons have plenty of openings.”
The server hurries away.
Commander Kaelix slams their glass down. “Your military is a joke, Castor. All that posturing, but put you up against real tactical innovation and you’d crumble.”
Lord Castor’s eyes narrow. “Big words from someone whose entire strategy is ‘blow everything up and see what happens—’”
“Your Graces,” Lady Isolde interjects smoothly, “perhaps we save the hostilities for the arena tomorrow?”
Lady Nerida speaks for the first time, her voice soft but filling the space. “The stars weep for what we are about to unleash. I see fire in the darkness, shadows that devour light, and a choice that will shatter worlds.”
I notice some of the House leaders pull a face or glance at each other in amusement, some better at hiding it than others.
The second course arrives. I move food around my plate, unable to focus. The sigil has stopped tingling, but the relief from healing Zevran is already fading at the edges.
Servants continue to bring course after course, accompanied by wines that taste of starlight and desserts that change flavour with each bite. I’ve never seen so much decadence.
I think of the boy in the alley … near death, starving … willing to do anything…
Yet here we sit, with every luxury in the galaxy. No one in this room has any idea what it’s really like out there, how their decisions in these rooms can have such devastating consequences.
I just hope whoever wins the throne might understand that.
As the final plates are cleared and the Houses begin to disperse, I feel a familiar sensation. A prickling across my spine, like eyes I can’t see watching from the shadows. I glance around the hall, but every face is accounted for, every guest visible.
Lady Nerida catches my arm as I pass her side of the table.
“Be careful, daughter of moon and sun,” she whispers. “The one who watches from shadow may mean you harm, while others here would see you burn before they let you rise.”
Before I can ask what she means, she’s already out the door.
Zevran appears at my elbow. “Ready to retreat?”
I nod wordlessly.
We walk back through the crystal corridors in silence. The music fades behind us, replaced by the soft hum of the arena itself.
When we reach the doors to our chambers, Zevran stops.
“You have her touch, you know,” he says quietly, turning to face me. “Your mother’s.”
My heart skips.
“It’s not just the healing … it’s also what comes after. The quiet.” His voice drops. “The nightmares began after my parents were killed by the Sun King. Liora was the only one who could make them bearable.”
The words don’t fully land at first. Then they do, all at once, and I have to grip the doorframe.
My father killed his parents.
“When Liora disappeared, I couldn’t lose you too. So I kept you close.” He meets my eyes again. “It was … selfish.”
I can’t speak.
My Mother faced Zevran every single day, knowing exactly who had destroyed his family. Now I’m doing the same. How many secrets did she know and kept me blind to?
I compose myself just enough to reply.
“I understand,” I tell him, the words barely audible. “I don’t hold it against you, Zevran.”
His expression changes, soft and vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Goodnight, Cyra.”
I slip into my room and close the door, leaning against it as my legs threaten to give out.
I’m the daughter of the man who caused his deepest trauma, and I’ve been lying since the moment we met.
If I tell him, he’ll send me away. If he finds out on his own, it will destroy whatever fragile thing exists between us. He’ll look at me and see only my father, and every moment of trust will rewrite itself as manipulation.
The trials start tomorrow. But the real test is whether I can keep this secret long enough to survive them.