Chapter 12
Itry to sleep, but the revelation about my father burns through me.
The Sun King murdered Zevran’s parents.
My father killed his family.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Zevran’s face when he told me, the careful control barely masking decades of grief and rage. The walls of my chamber press in, suffocating.
I need air.
I throw off the covers and leave my quarters, feet carrying me toward the observation lounge down the corridor before I consciously decide to go there.
The space is entirely glass and starlight. Talis glows below, a mesh of cities. The air here is cooler than in the Mars wing, and the hum of the arena’s engines vibrates faintly through the floor.
I am alone for only a breath.
“Hello, Miss Cyra.”
Lady Isolde steps into the starlight, wrapped in soft amber fabric. She moves with the same quiet confidence I saw in public earlier today, her hair down with dark curls spilling over one shoulder.
“Hello, Your Grace.” I bow my head shyly.
She steps towards me. “Admiring the view?”
I let my gaze focus on the horizon of Talis. “This place feels … unreal.”
“Your first time off-world.” It’s not a question. She settles onto one of the crystal benches and gestures for me to join her. The movement is elegant, unhurried. “I remember mine. I spent the whole trip convinced I’d ruin a treaty by simply breathing wrong.”
Her openness is disarming. I sit, careful to leave space between us. The bench is cold through my thin sleep clothes. “I take it you didn’t?”
“No. I learned most people are too busy worrying about their own mistakes to notice yours.” She studies the curve of the windows rather than me, her profile sharp against the glow of the cities below. “Although your circumstances are rather more unusual than mine ever were.”
“In what way?” I ask, a slight guardedness in my voice.
“You arrived with no political training and no prior relationships with any House leaders.” Her voice stays light, conversational. “Yet Mars trusts you with quite a lot.”
“My position is what Lord Zevran asked of me.”
“Mm. And he asked a great deal, didn’t he?” She tilts her head slightly, the way someone might when examining a painting from a new angle. “Venus pays attention to such shifts. When a leader such as Zevran starts to change his ways, we want to understand why.”
My palms go cold. “He’s capable on his own. My work only supports what he already is.”
“Of course.” Her smile is brief, knowing. “You guard yourself closely,” she says, turning to look at me directly now. Her eyes are warm, but assessing. “Not a criticism. Just rare. I can read most people’s fears and loyalties within minutes. You carry yours like something breakable.”
She’s circling the truth without knowing it. I shift my weight on the bench and nod toward the view, my own perceptiveness counteracting hers. “You speak like someone who has secrets of her own. Someone who doesn’t trust easily.”
Her face remains carefully neutral, fingers tracing the edge of the bench absently. “The Sun King taught all of us very early on to be on guard at all times.”
The name lands like ice water. To her, he is a lesson in history and power. To me, he is blood and bone and a shadow I can never step out of. But there’s something personal in her admission, something raw beneath her composed exterior.
“So … Venus fears another tyrant will come out of this Conclave,” I say.
“Venus fears choosing wrong, yes.” She stands and approaches the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass.
“We all do. When my brother was Lord of Venus, he made it his life’s mission to change things for the better.
I like to think I’m continuing that legacy.
” We both sit in the silence for a moment, taking in the stars above and the cities below.
“Now the system is straining,” Lady Isolde continues.
“Someone will rise. The question is who, and whether anyone can keep them from repeating history.”
I join her at the window but leave space between us.
Below, Talis stretches across the void, its surface carved with city structures that burrow into the moon itself.
Lights glow from within the carved channels and terraced districts, creating patterns that follow the natural ridges and craters.
From this distance, the cities look like veins of gold and silver threading through pale stone, pulsing with life beneath the surface.
“Do you think advisors make that difference, Lady Isolde?”
“I think the right advisor can.” She looks at my reflection in the glass rather than turning to face me. “Honesty. Independence. Loyalty to principle over convenience.” A pause. “Qualities that are difficult to assess from a distance.”
“Is this your way of assessing me … up close?”
“Partly.” She turns her head slightly, and her smile is smaller now, more genuine. “You seem like an enigma, Miss Cyra. That makes you either dangerous … or valuable.”
Outside the window, distant ships move between docking bays like fireflies.
“The first trial starts tomorrow,” I say finally.
“The Furnace.” Lady Isolde’s voice shifts, losing some of its warmth. “Venus intelligence agents briefed me this morning. Does Mars know anything about it?”
I swallow hard.
I need to play this right … if I do, Her Grace might share some useful intel I could take back to Zevran.
“Not really.” I say carefully. “Just that it tests strength.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then moves back toward the benches. “It’s held in a star-core simulation arena. Heat, fire, endurance. Gladiator-style combat in conditions that would kill most people within minutes.” Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrow, the only sign of tension.
My throat goes dry. “How do you win?”
“The leaders endure, until only one remains standing … or until the Cardinals call a victor.” She meets my eyes. “It’s brutal, Miss Cyra. People have died in the Furnace before. Not often, but it happens.”
The gravity of that settles over me.
“Mars is strong,” Lady Isolde says quietly. “But strength isn’t always enough. Watch the others. See who fights smart versus who fights angry. That will tell you everything you need to know about how they’d rule.”
She moves toward the door, then pauses. “Get some rest if you can. Tomorrow, the real games begin.”
I watch her leave, her amber fabric catching the light as she disappears down the corridor.
I find Zevran in his chamber, seated at the edge of the bed, still dressed despite the late hour. Maps and datapads cover every surface, holographic displays showing arena layouts and combat simulations. The room glows with the blue light of screens and the red pulse of Mars-tech.
His eyes snap up as I burst in. “What—”
“It’s called The Furnace,” I say, breathless. “They’re going to drop you into a heat-simulated arena. The winner is the last one standing. I don’t know all the details, but you need to be ready.”
He stands, towering over me, every muscle tense. “Where did you hear that?”
“Lady Isolde. She seemed to want me to know.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes searching my face. “The Furnace … I’ve heard stories. It’s an old trial used in Conclaves past – ancient tech that can simulate a dying star. If it’s true, the heat alone could kill most people in minutes. It’s hotter than any heat wave on Mars…”
I lean against the doorframe, my legs suddenly unsteady.
If something happens to him tomorrow, if he’s badly injured, or worse … what will happen to me? If anyone found out my heritage, I’d be alone in a place full of people who want me dead, with no protection, no allies, no way home.
Yet underneath that selfish fear is something more uncomfortable – genuine concern for him as a person. The thought of watching him suffer, of potentially being powerless to heal severe heat damage, makes my chest tight in ways that have nothing to do with my own survival.
“You could die,” I say quietly, the words feeling strange and too intimate coming from someone who’s supposed to be just his healer.
He studies my face, and I realize I’ve revealed more than I intended. “Concerned about losing your patient?” he asks, but there’s something searching in his tone.
“We can plan,” I say, quickly changing the subject. “You can outlast them if you play it smart. We know how to survive heat storms, better than any other planet – you don’t need to fight like a brute – you just need a strategy.”
He gestures to the table stacked with arena specs and combat analyses. “Will you help me? It looks like the Cardinals gave us records of old trials from past Conclaves. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere.”
I quickly close the door behind me, and approach the table.
“First, we need to understand what we’re up against,” Zevran says, pulling up holographic profiles of each House leader. “Every competitor will approach this differently.”
He gestures to Lord Castor’s image. “Jupiter will rely on brute strength. Castor’s built like a siege engine – he’ll try to overpower everyone through sheer physical dominance.”
“What about Commander Kaelix?” I inquire.
“Uranus specializes in unconventional tactics. Kaelix is unpredictable, which makes them dangerous,” he says. There’s an edge to Zevran’s voice.
The hologram shifts to show Saturn. “Evander will study every rule, every precedent, looking for loopholes or technicalities. He’ll conserve energy while others exhaust themselves, then strike when they’re weakest.”
“And Lady Tavia?” I ask.
Zevran’s expression grows thoughtful.
“Mercury’s greatest strength is communication and diplomacy, but that’s useless in this trial. Tavia will probably try to form temporary alliances, convince others to work together against bigger threats. But alliances in gladiator combat tend to be … short-lived.”
Silence surrounds us as we take it all in.
“There’s also Neptune,” Zevran continues. “The wild card. Nerida’s mystical abilities might be more than just theatre – water magic could be incredibly valuable in a heat-based trial. I have no idea what her strategy will be beyond that,” he admits.
I lean forward, studying the tactical displays.
“So, your biggest threats are Lord Castor’s strength, Commander Kaelix’s unpredictability, and Lord Evander’s patience?”
“And technically … Isolde’s intelligence,” Zevran adds grimly. “Venus knows things about all of us that we probably don’t know about ourselves. If anyone’s going to have advanced knowledge of the trial’s specific mechanics, it’s her.”
“Is that why she told me about the Furnace? To help us … or to manipulate us?” I ask.
Zevran grimaces. “With Isolde, it’s usually both.”
We spend the rest of the night hunched over datapads and simulation charts, lit by the cold glow of artificial starlight.
I trace potential pathways through gladiator scenarios while he calculates endurance requirements and heat tolerance.
Somewhere between the fire simulations and combat strategies, our hands brush over the same display.
The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, but I don’t move my hand.
His fingers are warm, calloused from sword work, and for a moment I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how his sleeve brushes my arm when he reaches for another datapad.
“This projection shows potential thermal zones,” he says, his voice slightly rougher than usual. “If I stay in the blue areas…”
I nod, trying to focus on the strategic information rather than the way his proximity makes my skin feel hypersensitive.
When he leans closer to trace a route through the arena layout, my heart skips a beat.
For a split second, the buried hunger stirs, mistaking proximity for an invitation to heal his pain.
I push it down … tonight can’t be about feeding the need.
Tonight has to be about keeping Zevran alive.
As dawn approaches – artificial light gradually brightening through the arena’s windows – we sit back, exhausted but prepared.
“Thank you,” Zevran says quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I reply. “Thank me when you win.”
His hand is still touching mine on the datapad. Neither of us has moved. In a few hours, he’ll step into the Furnace. And I’ll be in the stands, watching.
Hoping.