Chapter 13
The medical chamber smells of latex and bleach.
Light filters through glass walls in bands, slicing across Zevran’s bare shoulders as the Cardinals document every movement of my hands. I press my palm to his chest and force the magic to cooperate. No euphoria, no shimmer of release, only enough to both heal and fly under the radar.
The crescent moon sigil at my sternum glows once, faintly, before dimming again.
Cardinal Benedict steps closer, his breath catching. “Extraordinary. A moon sigil – an authentic one – but you have never undergone the Daughter’s Rite…”
Cardinal Maria joins him, her eyes narrowing. “Sigils are a rarity. Even among Daughters of the Moon, very few receive them. How did you come about to have this?”
I hadn’t prepared for this question.
“I—” The hesitation catches in my throat.
Zevran’s voice sharpens. “What matters is her work, not the origin of a mark she cannot control. She is here to restore my health before the trial. She owes you no explanation.”
A tense silence follows. Cardinal Benedict’s eyes move between us.
“Indeed,” he says finally. “You may proceed.”
The familiar tingling builds in my chest, but I strangle it before it can blossom into the addictive rush I crave.
I ration the magic out in careful threads instead of letting it surge, terrified the scribes will see any spike and write it down as an anomaly …
as danger. The sigil pulses weakly again beneath my sternum as healing energy trickles through my fingertips into Zevran.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make a sound.
But I feel the tension leave his muscles as the luminescent veins beneath his skin begin to fade.
“Heart rate stable,” a Cardinal scribe notes from somewhere behind me. “Magic output within acceptable parameters.”
The withdrawal aches beneath my skin, made worse by having to touch him without allowing myself to feel the high. My hands tremble as I pull away, and I clasp them behind my back so the Cardinals won’t see.
“The healing is complete,” I announce. My voice sounds hollow.
Cardinal Benedict steps forward, assessing Zevran’s back where the sickly grey veins have faded to almost nothing. “Efficient work. Mars receives no advantage beyond restoration to baseline health.”
“Lord Zevran of Mars,” Cardinal Maria says, making a notation on her datapad. “Cleared for trial one.”
Two guards step between us immediately, severing the connection. One gestures for Zevran to follow them toward the preparation chambers. The other waits to escort me separately.
Zevran’s eyes find mine one last time. I want to reach for him, want to ask if the healing took properly, want to do anything except stand here watching him walk away.
But the guards are already moving, and the last thing I see before he disappears down the corridor is the set of his shoulders, confident and ready.
As I’m led down the corridor to the preparation chamber, I press my palms against my ribs, trying to ease the gnawing emptiness that sits beneath my breastbone. It doesn’t help. The ache only deepens as the sound of the guard’s footsteps continue ahead of me.
I think about the letter I sent to Astrid yesterday, catching her up on everything that’s happened. In her last letter to me, Astrid confirmed there’s still no news of Mother.
She’s fine. She has to be fine.
I shake my head, releasing the thought. I can’t afford to think about anything right now except keeping Zevran alive through the trial.
I feel a wave of nervous energy wash over me as I walk into the preparation chamber.
The space is massive, with stone walls that curve upward into a vaulted ceiling at least fifty feet high.
Arched doorways line one side, each leading to private alcoves for individual Houses, while the opposite wall is dominated by a series of narrow windows that look out onto the arena floor below.
The stone here is dark, almost black, and absorbs sound in a way that makes every conversation feel like a secret.
Advisors, aides, and House leaders cluster in tense groups, some reviewing last-minute strategic advice, while others engage in subtle psychological warfare. The air feels charged, dangerous.
My eyes drift upward to the banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
Each House’s colours are represented in bold displays: Mars’s crimson, Venus’s amber, Jupiter’s grey-green, Saturn’s deep purple, Mercury’s silver and navy, Neptune’s ocean blue and sea green, Uranus’s ice-white.
And in the far corner, partially obscured by shadow, hangs a set of tattered black flags with faded silver symbols I can barely make out … the abandoned banners of Pluto.
I spot Zevran immediately near the Mars section.
He’s in the middle of strapping on his arena attire, dark leather and metal plates designed for mobility and protection.
The red of Mars stands bold against the black.
An attendant helps adjust the shoulder guards while Zevran tests the range of motion in his arms.
When he sees me, he dismisses the attendant with a curt nod.
“How do I look?” he asks, turning so I can see the full assembly. A flash of heat spreads across my chest, sneaking up my neck and into my cheeks as I try not to let my gaze linger too long on Zevran’s frame.
“Intimidating,” I say honestly. “And ready.”
I help him adjust the straps on his remaining shoulder guard, my fingers working the leather while trying not to think about how this might be the last time I touch him.
“Remember what we discussed,” I murmur. “Endurance over aggression. Let the others exhaust themselves.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then you adapt.” I meet his eyes. “You outlast them, Zevran. Whatever it takes.”
Our eyes hold each other’s gaze for a moment, filled with things left unsaid.
From across the chamber, Lady Tavia’s young advisor approaches and interrupts hesitantly. “Miss Cyra? Lady Tavia wanted to extend an offer of mutual support during the trial. Perhaps…”
“Mars stands alone,” Zevran cuts in before I can respond.
The Mercury advisor flushes and retreats.
I notice other advisors watching our exchange, analyzing every interaction.
They’re treating me like a gatekeeper now, measuring Mars through me.
A year ago, I was healing broken bones in an alley clinic; now nobles are recalibrating their strategies based on a no-name healer at a Lord’s side.
Every time Zevran lets me stand in a place Commander Nael or Lord Vance should have occupied, he sharpens the target on both of us.
I shoot Zevran a look, confused and frustrated by his impulsive answer. He meets my gaze confidently.
“Mercury’s strategy is always to find alliances, but don’t let that fool you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Tavia’s only helpful if you comply.”
As I finish checking and adjusting every strap, movement in the shadows near the back entrance catches my attention.
My heart stops as I realize a figure is standing there, barely visible against the darkened archway, with black clothing that seems to drink the light, a bone-white mask obscuring half his face…
My breath catches.
It’s him.
The same figure from the slums. The same spine-tingling sensation creeping down my back.
My gaze flicks back to those abandoned black flags hanging in the corner, then down to the masked figure standing in shadows beneath them.
The memory hits me with startling clarity: the alley, the attack, the way darkness itself seemed to bend to his will. In that instant, I make the connection: shadows. Pluto.
Lord Lucien.
The exiled leader of a dead House, presumed killed when his kingdom fell. But what if he didn’t die? What if he became something else entirely?
If he’s alive, if he’s been watching me, protecting me … why?
The figure shifts slightly, and I catch a glimpse of those same gloved hands that once commanded darkness to save my life.
He’s watching the preparation chamber, but his attention seems focused specifically on me, not on any of the trial participants.
Lady Nerida’s warning whispers back to me: the one who watches from shadow may mean you harm.
Is that what he is? A threat waiting for the right moment – or the only thing standing between me and something worse?
My head starts spinning.
“Cyra?” Zevran’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You’re shaking.”
I look down at my hands. He’s right. I’m not entirely sure if the tremors are from withdrawal or from the realization that the Lord of Pluto may be watching over me.
I don’t have time to think this through right now.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just nervous for you.”
A horn sounds somewhere in the distance, deep and resonant. The leaders begin moving toward the arena entrance, their advisors following to the observation areas.
Zevran turns to me one last time. “Cyra—if something goes wrong—”
“Nothing will go wrong.” The words come out more forcefully than I intend. “You’re going to win this.”
He nods, and for a moment, his expression softens … that same unguarded look I’ve only seen when his walls come down. Then it’s gone. His face becomes unreadable again as he turns and walks toward the arena with the other leaders.
I rush to join the other advisors climbing stone steps that spiral up the arena’s exterior wall. The view from the deck makes me gasp.
The arena stretches below me like a dying solar system trapped within gladiator walls.
The circular pit carved from ancient stone rises in steep tiers to where I grip the observation rail, but my eyes are drawn inexorably downward to the floor that blazes with the fury of a collapsed star.
White-hot light pulses from the centre, so intense it hurts to look at, radiating outward in waves of plasma-bright heat that make the air dance and blur.
Floating platforms of black stone drift across the Furnace, scattered like coins. Between them move fragments of meteoric debris and gleaming chunks of star-metal, clouds of glittering dust catching the light like powdered diamonds. Each platform bobs and sways unpredictably.
The heat rising from below is suffocating even from this height. Spaced out across the various platforms, the leaders stand. Zevran looks small from this distance, but his posture radiates confidence and readiness.
I turn my attention to the crowd, roaring from the stands – thousands of voices blending into a single deafening wave.
I scan the tiers and see citizens from every House packed into the ancient stone seats.
Some wear their kingdom’s colours like armour, shouting encouragement to their leaders.
Others sit in tense silence, hands clasped.
In the highest tier, I spot dignitaries and nobles, their faces hidden behind ornate masks, leaning forward with the hungry interest of those who’ve never had to risk anything important in their entire lives.
Scattered throughout, hooded figures in neutral grey sit – outer colonists with no House allegiance, here to witness who will rule them next.
Cardinal Benedict’s voice booms across the arena, amplified by the ancient acoustics.
“This Trial of Strength, known as The Furnace, tests the fundamental requirement of leadership: the ability to endure when others cannot.” His words carry the weight of ceremony, but also warning.
“The arena you see below simulates the core temperature of a dying star. The platforms will move in unpredictable patterns, forcing competitors into proximity and conflict.”
I grip the rail tighter as he continues.
“There are no off-moon weapons provided, no allies permitted, no mercy given. Victory belongs to the last competitor standing.”
Around me, other advisors shift nervously. Some look excited by the spectacle about to unfold, while others appear as horrified as I feel.
Cardinal Maria steps forward. “Medical intervention will only be provided after elimination or victory. No assistance may be given during the trial itself.” Her eyes sweep the observation deck.
The brutal reality hits me: if Zevran is badly injured, I won’t be able to heal him until the trial ends. I’ll have to watch him suffer, possibly die, while being powerless to help.
Cardinal Marcus adds the final detail: “The trial begins when the platforms achieve full orbital velocity. It ends when only one competitor remains conscious and standing. There is no time limit.”
I look down at Zevran again, small against the hellscape below, and a voice echoes from hidden speakers, seeming to come from the arena itself: “Let the first trial begin. May the strongest lead, and the wisest survive.”
The platforms begin to move.
And deep in my chest, a sigil starts to glow.