Chapter 19
The arena’s social wing feels like an entirely different world.
The corridors are wide and warmly lit, their walls lined with amber glass.
Arched doorways open onto lounges furnished with low couches: sapphire velvet on the left, emerald silk near the fountain, ruby brocade beneath the portrait of some long-dead Cardinal.
Servants in neutral grey refill crystal glasses and clear empty plates.
Pearlescent panels line the walls, reflecting conversations back at themselves, doubling every speaker into an audience of two.
Isolde guides me through it all, her hand light on my elbow.
She’s wearing a flowing gown in Venus amber, the fabric gathered at her shoulders and falling in soft layers to the floor.
Her long black hair falls in tight curls past her shoulders, pinned back on one side with a white comb inlaid with rose gold.
“This is where the real Conclave happens, darling,” she says quietly, her accent crisp and refined. “The trials test your strength and cunning. But here? Here they test whether you understand the game.”
I watch a cluster of Jupiter aides laugh over wine, their storm-green uniforms buttoned despite the informal environment. Across the room, a Saturn scholar in purple robes speaks with a lesser Cardinal, both bent over a dusty tome.
“If you want to survive the trials, you need to understand how each House operates,” Isolde continues, guiding me past a cluster of Mercury aides chattering away. “Their methods, their weaknesses, what they value and what they fear.”
“And you’re going to teach me?” I ask.
“I’m going to give you the opportunity to learn,” she replies smoothly. “What you do with it is up to you.”
We move deeper into the wing. I catch glimpses of myself in the glass reflections from portraits hanging on the walls: my blonde hair loose and unadorned, my simple gold dress plain against Isolde’s elegant gown beside me.
I look as much out of place as I feel. A few conversations stutter as we pass, eyes flicking to the sigil hidden beneath my collarbone like they can see it through the fabric.
Isolde draws my attention to a room with a small crowd.
“Everyone here is positioning themselves,” Isolde murmurs. “Watch Lord Castor near the archway. See how he never stands with his back to a door? That’s military thinking applied to everything, even in casual, social environments. He’s always calculating exits and angles of attack.”
I find Lord Castor easily. His burly build stands out among the Jupiter delegation. When his gaze lands on me, his expression hardens. The look he gives me is cold and assessing, tinged with a hint of resentment. Then he turns back to his aides as if I’m not worth his attention.
He’s surrounded by officers but somehow still commands the centre. When he lifts his glass with his good hand, three aides shift position. When he turns left, a path clears through the crowd.
“People follow him without realizing they’ve moved,” Isolde observes. “That’s how he operates.”
We pass through another junction of the wing.
“There,” Isolde says, nodding toward a figure standing alone near a holographic display. “Commander Kaelix. Always apart, always watching. They’re planning to tear down everything the system stands for and replace it with something none of us can predict.”
As if sensing my attention, Commander Kaelix glances in our direction. Their eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before they deliberately turn back to the display, dismissing me as thoroughly as Castor did.
I press my lips together.
“Isolde, I … I don’t think Commander Kaelix or Lord Castor want me anywhere near them right now…”
“Of course they don’t,” she says lightly. “Which is exactly why we will go to them eventually. But not as your first lesson.” She pauses, considering. “Let’s start with Mercury then. They move fast and value efficiency. Watch how Tavia operates.”
I furrow my brow. “You think she’ll even talk to me?”
“Only one way to find out, darling.”
The Mercury communications gallery occupies a circular chamber two levels above the main arena floor.
The walls curve in a smooth sweep of dark metal threaded with embedded circuitry.
Thin ribbons of holographic data twist through the air, each one tagged with House colours as they cross and reconfigure in shifting patterns.
Lady Tavia stands at the central console, her fingers moving with the kind of speed that comes from long practice rather than urgency. She wears a fitted Mercury jacket in polished silver, high-collared and sharply cut. Her dark hair, streaked with cobalt blue, is pulled into a practical knot.
A young aide approaches with a tablet. “Lady Tavia, the Saturn grain shipment is requesting priority clearance through the Belt corridor.”
“Denied.” She doesn’t look up. “They had priority last cycle and missed their window by forty minutes. They return to standard queue.”
“But Your Grace … they’re claiming equipment failure...”
“I’m sure they are.” She flicks through another data stream. “Send them the maintenance schedule they ignored for half a year. Remind them what preventive care looks like.”
The aide hurries off.
Isolde stands near the doorway, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Her presence feels supervisory rather than social. I clear my throat.
Lady Tavia glances back at me, her expression settling into cool politeness. “Lady Cyra. Are you lost?”
“Observing,” I say. “I’m trying to understand how the Houses operate behind the scenes.”
“Then Mercury may disappoint you.” She turns back to the console. “We manage communications and trade routes. Efficient, but not exciting.”
It’s a dismissal. I ignore it and step closer, drawn to a blinking red tag near the outer belt. Ships cluster around it, their progress stalled like blood pooling around an obstruction.
“Problem?” I ask.
Her fingers tap once against the console before she catches herself. The only sign that something has gotten under her skin.
“Governor Vesta,” she says. “He refuses to reroute his supply convoy. It’s blocking three sectors, delaying every House.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Repeatedly.” She pulls up a message thread. Her requests are cleanly structured, rational and patient. His replies are blunt refusals.
“Apparently, he doesn’t accept suggestions from someone half his age,” she says quietly.
I study the congestion again. “What have you offered him in exchange?” I inquire.
Her Grace frowns. “Offered? Nothing. He should reroute because it’s the efficient choice.”
“What if you make it look like his idea?” I say.
“How?”
“Tell him Mercury is testing a new priority lane. Ask if his pilots want to lead the trial. If it works, name the corridor after him.”
She freezes for a heartbeat, then her fingers resume their rhythm as she weighs pride against outcome. “Huh. Isn’t that manipulative?”
“It’s practical,” I say. “You can’t fix a clogged artery by arguing with it. And it gets everyone else moving again.”
She considers this for a moment before opening a channel. “Governor Vesta, I am testing a new priority lane for the outer belt run. Your pilots have the best record in the region. If the trial succeeds, we’ll designate the route as the ‘Vesta Corridor.’”
A pause. Then a rough voice: “How much time does it cut?”
“Seven minutes,” she replies.
Another pause. “Fine. Send coordinates.”
The red tag turns green. The congestion dissolves. Traffic rebalances itself through the streams in moments.
Lady Tavia watches the display as if witnessing an equation resolving itself into something she hadn’t considered possible.
“You solved a three-day standoff in thirty seconds,” she says.
“You would have figured it out,” I offer.
“Not that way,” she says, reaching into her pocket to pull out a small hexagonal token of Mercury-blue glass. “This links to my private network. It will flag your location if you are ever in a blackout. Symbolic, mostly, but useful during trials. I don’t give these to many people.”
I take it. The glass is warm from her hand. “Thank you.”
The gesture feels heavier than the delicate token in my palm.
She studies me with newfound interest. “Mercury values clarity and efficiency.” Her mouth curves into a rare, genuine smile. “If you ever need support, send word. Mercury doesn’t forget favours.”
I tuck the token away. As I turn to leave the gallery, the holographic streams shift again.
One faint signal near the outskirts flickers with irregular intervals.
Lady Tavia’s eyes track toward it, and her expression tightens for the smallest fraction of a moment before smoothing into practiced neutrality.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Her Grace gives a small shrug of her thin shoulders. “Sometimes we track irregular signals near the rim. Probably debris, but the frequencies are inconsistent.” She folds her arms, the motion neat and contained.
The signal flickers again, a stuttering pattern that doesn’t match anything else in the room. Lady Tavia holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turns back to the console and begins recalibrating traffic patterns. The conversation is over, but the question lingers in my mind.
I find Isolde in the corridor outside, examining her nails with studied disinterest.
“You disappeared,” I say.
“You didn’t need me hovering. Mercury responds better to direct problem-solving than political theatre.” She starts walking, and I fall into step beside her. “I was able to overhear most of it. You approached her as a collaborator. That matters to someone constantly trying to prove herself.”
We pass through a junction where the amber glass gives way to darker stone. The social wing’s warmth fades behind us.
“You should try Saturn next,” Isolde says. “Evander is practical and logical, but I’ve never seen him engage in a conversation that wasn’t philosophical, so … you’ll just have to handle this one differently.”
“How?” I ask, suddenly unsure of myself.
“You’ll figure it out.” She stops at a branching corridor. “The library is through there. Evander values knowledge and preservation above all else.”
“You’re not coming?” I ask.
“No. This one you go alone, darling.”