Chapter 16
Ren keeps me moving – no lingering in corridors or near windows.
She steers me into a service gallery with grated catwalks and a view down into the arena’s maintenance bays. Heat shimmers through the metal lattice as a generator kicks and the wall symbols stutter. My whole body wants to stop, to breathe, to think. Ren doesn’t let me.
“Today, you’ll be officially announced as a contender in the Conclave,” she says. “Before that happens, we should—”
We’re halfway across the catwalk when a maintenance drone detaches from its rail and zips toward us. Ren’s hand is already at my shoulder, pushing me into the guardshadow of a pillar.
“Stay behind me.”
The drone brakes hard, lenses irising. A tiny port clicks open.
“Friendly?” I ask.
“Unknown.” She closes the distance in three strides, snags the drone mid-air, and slams it into the pillar. The carapace hisses; a spark spits. Ren twists something I can’t see. The drone goes limp, then droops in her grip like a stunned insect.
She glances back. “I never wait for certainty, though.”
An unexpected round of applause floats up from the end of the catwalk.
Lady Isolde steps out from a stairwell alcove, haloed by the overhead lights. She’s dressed in silks and jewelry that catches every glint, a courtier built for attention. A pair of Venus aides hover a respectful distance behind her.
“Marvelous demonstration,” she says, voice carrying that distinctive lilt. “If we could teach half our court to move that decisively, we’d cut our casualty reports in half.”
Ren is unimpressed. “My Lady … are you shadowing my routes?”
“I prefer, ‘ensuring our newest contender arrives at her first public appearance looking composed.’” Lady Isolde’s smile is all invitation.
Her gaze settles on me, taking in my rumpled clothes and the exhaustion I can’t hide.
“Excellent, darling … you wear sleeplessness well. Makes you look determined rather than desperate.”
She touches my forearm lightly. “I’m here to offer you support, Cyra. Let me help. Politics is a language. I can teach you to hear it faster than they can weaponize your silence.”
The offer catches me off guard.
Why would she help me? We’re competitors now. She gains nothing from making me stronger…
Unless she does. Unless this is another play I’m too naive to see coming.
But there’s something in her eyes that doesn’t feel calculated. Not warmth, exactly. More like recognition or understanding. It feels trustworthy and sincere … I’ll just have to keep my guard up until I know I can trust her.
I nod slowly. “I’d appreciate that, Lady Isolde.”
Ren’s eyes narrow.
Her Grace’s smile softens as she touches my arm. “Cyra, if we’re to speak as allies, I must insist on one thing. Call me Isolde. Titles are for audiences, not for moments like this.”
The warmth of her hand lingers as she gestures subtly toward the maintenance bay below, where a group of technicians watches us through the grated catwalks. “Then my first piece of advice is … in our world, you’re always performing, even for people who’ll never set foot in a throne room.”
She leans in, her breath brushing my cheek. “Today is all posture. You will be studied, parsed, reduced to a rumour. But there are ways in which we can choose what that rumour is.”
Rumours. They built my father into a god and a monster. One careless moment and the same stories will grow around me.
A door hisses open at the far end of the gallery. Zevran fills the threshold. Formal coat, blade at hip, colour back in his face but that careful way of holding himself that tells me the pain hasn’t gone far. I hold my breath as he approaches.
“Your clearance doesn’t include this level,” Ren says without looking at him. Her stance shifts just slightly in front of me, protective without touching. It shouldn’t make warmth crawl up my throat. But it does.
Zevran ignores her and takes me in quickly: sweat at my temples, the way my fingers worry the hem of my sleeve. His eyes narrow for half a heartbeat, like he recognizes the signs. But if he does, he thankfully doesn’t broach the subject.
“Weapons training,” he says curtly. “South practice hall at dusk. Staves first, then blades.”
Isolde’s amusement brightens. “How very martial of you, Lord Zevran.”
“She needs to know how to defend herself.” His eyes stay on me, then flick briefly toward the corridor behind him. His weight shifts subtly, like he’s aware of who might be watching.
He doesn’t want it to look like he’s allying with me, I realize as I remember our conversation just before the kiss. The people of Mars would view him as a traitor if he allied with the daughter of the Sun King … the tyrant who took so much away from them...
Something twists in my chest. Gratitude that he would risk helping me at all, maybe.
Or the possibility that he doesn’t hate me for what I am.
That he might still see me as someone worth protecting.
But grief sits underneath it all, heavy and unmoving.
We can’t go back. The kiss was a moment. This is what remains.
“Then it’s settled, Cyra,” Isolde says smoothly. “I’ll take mornings for diplomatic protocol. Zevran will take evenings for your percussive education.”
Zevran gives a short nod, and then he’s gone.
They bring the Houses together in the Viewing Rotunda.
The space is designed for spectacle, not intimacy.
A circular floor of obsidian stretches beneath my feet, inlaid with a silver star map that glows faintly.
The constellations shift as I walk across them, responding to movement.
Tall windows arch between stone pillars, each one fitted with stained glass depicting planetary symbols.
The banners of each House hang from the vaulted ceiling like battle standards, their colours sharp against the stone.
People line the curved walls in clusters: advisors, aides, envoys, priests.
The Cardinals stand on a raised dais at the far end, backlit by the largest window.
My skin feels too tight. A low hum has started at the base of my skull, familiar and unwelcome.
Ren angles me along a route that avoids choke points. Isolde ghosts my left flank, murmuring micro-cues. “Pause here.” “Acknowledge there.” “Ignore that one.” Zevran walks a pace behind.
I scan the room as I’m ushered onto the central ring.
Commander Kaelix leans against a pillar with their arms crossed, watching me with hostile curiosity.
Lady Tavia stands with her delegation, silver and blue robes catching light with every small movement, their expressions giving away nothing.
Lady Nerida hovers near the Neptune banners, her sea-green hair almost translucent in the filtered sunlight, gaze distant like she’s looking at something beyond this room.
My throat tightens.
They probably all think I’ve been maliciously lying to them, gathering information to take them down. It can’t be further from the truth.
Cardinal Maria’s voice breaks the silence. “By ancient law, Lady Cyra of House Sun is recognized as a rightful contender for Solar Sovereign. She will stand the remaining trials.”
The words make it real. Official. Irreversible.
I can feel them all looking at me differently now. Lord Evander leans forward slightly, his eyes sharp and calculating like he’s already three moves ahead.
Lord Castor shoves forward from Jupiter’s cluster, shoulders broad enough to easily cut through the crowd. His face is swollen on one side, a dark bruise spreading from his jaw to his temple. He moves like someone who’s used to ignoring pain, but I can see the subtle limp in his stride.
“With respect to the Cardinals,” he says, though his tone suggests no respect whatsoever. “The daughter of a murderous tyrant king appears after twenty-eight years, and we’re expected to simply accept her legitimacy?”
Whispers run through the chamber. Some agreeing. Some waiting.
Lord Castor’s voice sharpens. “We all saw what happened in that arena. There was magical interference. That alone should disqualify her!”
“And you used illegal tech to stabilize your platform and almost kill Zevran,” Commander Kaelix says lazily. “Should we disqualify you for that, or do rules only apply to people you don’t like?”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Lord Castor’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t back down.
“Even setting aside the arena,” he continues, turning back to me, “what exactly qualifies her to lead? She’s been hiding on Mars playing healer while us actual leaders did the work of governing.
She’s never commanded a House. Never negotiated a treaty.
Never made a decision that affected whole planets.
” He gestures at me. “How can someone who’s spent her entire life hiding, suddenly command an entire solar system? ”
The chamber goes quiet.
My throat is tight. The hum in my head is faint but building. Every eye in the room is on me, waiting to see if I’ll break…
I don’t know what to say. He’s not wrong. I haven’t done any of those things.
If they see even a flicker of my father in me … rage, power, the wrong kind of confidence … they’ll tear me apart.
Isolde’s whisper reaches me, barely audible. “Don’t fight the truth, Cyra. Use it.”
I’ve spent my whole life surviving by staying small. This is the first time survival demands that I be seen.
I take a breath and step forward. “You’re … right.”
The room shifts. Even Lord Castor looks surprised.
“I did hide,” I say. The words come slowly at first, like I’m finding them as I speak.
“Whatever remnants of the Sun kingdom that remained after the very first outer rim attack … whatever my father built from the ashes, was destroyed after his death.” I meet Lord Castor’s eyes.
“So yes. I hid … or else I would have been eliminated too. And yes, I’ve never governed a House.
I’ve never negotiated a treaty or commanded a fleet or made decisions in rooms like this. ”
I can feel Zevran watching me. Everyone is.
“But I do have experience,” I continue. My voice is steadier. “Just not the kind you’re used to counting.”
Lady Tavia tilts her head slightly. Lord Evander’s expression hasn’t changed, but he’s listening.
“I’ve spent years watching what decisions made in rooms like this do to the people living under your rule.
” The words come faster now. “I’ve seen supply chains collapse because someone prioritized cost efficiency over reliability.
I’ve treated miners with lung damage because safety inspections were delayed for the third quarter in a row. ”
The silence in the room spurs me on.
“I’ve explained to a mother why I couldn’t save her daughter from an infection we had medicine for.
Medicine that was sitting in a warehouse because the paperwork wasn’t profitable enough to expedite.
” My hands are shaking. I clasp them behind my back.
“So, no. I haven’t governed. But I know what governance costs when it fails.
I’ve been close enough to count the bodies. ”
Lord Castor’s face darkens. “Pretty words, Princess,” he snarls. “When real crisis hits, you’ll fold.”
The room is completely still.
Cardinal Maria’s voice cuts through the moment. “The recognition stands. Lady Cyra of House Sun will compete in the remaining trials.”
Isolde’s breath ghosts my ear. “Well done, darling.”
I let the silence stretch. Faces tilt toward me, then toward one another. Conversations splinter. Rumours start to grow.
Cardinal Maria lifts her hand for dispersal. “Our next trial begins in one week.”
The spell breaks. People move.
Isolde dips in for a quick, elegant kiss to the air near my cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her smile tightens. “You made an impression today. Let’s hope it’s the right one.”
Zevran lingers until the last cluster near Jupiter pries itself away.
“Dusk. Don’t be late.”
It isn’t forgiveness. It’s a line drawn on the floor, and an invitation to stand on it.
Ren nudges me toward the exit. “Head down. Eyes up.”
We move through the rotunda’s doors, past the banners, into the spine of the arena where heat lives in the walls. Somewhere behind us, the rumours begin to take shape ... and I can only hope it isn’t the shape of my father.