Chapter 3
I wake up on a massive bed, so soft it feels like it was stitched together from layers of clouds. It’s no longer dark, no stars above, just daylight pouring in through silk curtains that sway in a lazy breeze.
It’s the morning.
For a second, I wonder if I dreamed it all. The Fae, the Court, and the hand I took.
But then I look around.
This place … it doesn’t exist in my tiny little house. The ceilings are too high. The scent too pure. The silence too complete.
Strange.
I’m still wearing my bathrobe, but my feet are warm, not a single blister in sight.
Did I die and go to heaven?
Eh.
Who am I kidding?
With all the suicidal thoughts I’ve had lately, and the way I’ve treated everyone, especially my own brother, heaven would probably slam its doors in my face.
Or maybe this is hell.
A version of hell appearing as heaven just to mess with me. A place where I wake up every day, convinced I’ll find Declan—only to fail because he’s in actual heaven, and I’m not.
Now that would be hilarious.
I get up and survey the room, the carpet soft, delicate, and stupidly luxurious beneath my feet. This is the kind of room you’d find in a palace, designed to cradle royalty and all their expensive jewels and crowns.
A massive mirror stretches across half a wall, framed in silver so ornate it probably costs more than my entire house.
The kind of mirror you’d expect to show your soul or summon a demon if you stare at it too long.
Across from it sits a built-in bathtub, sunken into gleaming marble like a decadent little pond.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it fills itself and sings when you dip your feet in.
There’s a wardrobe on the other side of the room—so big like it expects to house clothes of a permanent resident, not a contestant who’d stay for a few weeks … or a day, if I’m unlucky and die in the first trial. It’s made out of glossy, ancient wood with handles shaped like crescent moons.
I know it in my bones—I’m at the Court of the Fallen.
But nothing is how I imagined it.
Is this how they treat all of the contestants?
I am a contestant, right?
Maybe the Fae are merciful enough to grant us comfort before our deaths, like how prisoners are offered one final meal before execution day.
I open the wardrobe, expecting maybe a few clothes or something mildly threatening for the trials, since I came empty-handed. Instead, it’s packed with dresses, shirts, trousers, fighting leathers, even glamorous evening gowns that sparkle in the sunlight.
Huh.
Maybe I really am expected to dance my ass off to win.
My confusion only grows the more I explore the room—there are books, playing cards, jewellery, even a map of the Court.
Am I in a competition or on a bloody field trip?
A knock interrupts my train of thought and almost makes me jump.
I tighten my bathrobe and attempt to tame my wild hair as I walk to the door.
Should have gotten changed first thing—for fuck’s sake, Cassandra.
Before me stands a slim Fae with high cheekbones. Although all Fae are immortal, she still looks young, her posture soft, shy, like a young girl who lacks confidence or life experience. Her braided hair reaches her hips, and she doesn’t smile as she politely greets me.
“Miss Thorne,” she says, and I immediately wonder if all the Fae know my full life history, or the colour of my underwear. The handsome one last night even knew my name and my brother. “I’m here to collect you.”
“To where?” I ask, and more importantly … “Now?”
“Well …” She glances down at my very inappropriate attire. She’s already taller than me—all Fae are—but now I feel even more pathetic. “I suppose we can take ten minutes.”
“Be right back,” I mutter before slamming the door shut and sprinting back to the wardrobe.
Oh, Gods, what do I wear?
I run back and open the door again. I poke my head out.
“Sorry”—I clear my throat—“where exactly are we going?”
“To Orientation, where you’ll meet the rest of the contestants,” she says with a hint of annoyance … I should probably have not slammed the door. “A dress will do.”
“Thank you,” I say apologetically, before shutting the door slowly this time.
Orientation.
A dress.
These people take formality so seriously.
I don’t really care about what I have to wear, as long as I get what I came for. If this is how the Fae prefer it, then I’ll do it. I pick a soft pink dress that flows nicely past my knees, the fabric delicate and light on my skin.
I consider wearing a pair of sandals that would match the dress perfectly but choose boots for practicality—because what if I have to run?
Everything fits me too well, like it was made specially for me.
Must be nice having magic.
I yank the door open again right when the Fae is about to knock. She lowers her hand, then her gaze, eyeing me from head to toe like she’s mentally scoring my outfit.
Then she gives me a subtle nod—I take it my choice of dress is acceptable.
She doesn’t talk much—doesn’t even bother to introduce herself. She just turns and starts leading me down the corridor in silence. Meanwhile, my heart is trying to leap out of my chest as I scan the surroundings.
The corridor stretches endlessly ahead, soaked in soft golden sunlight that seems to glow from everywhere at once.
The marble floor echoes our footsteps. To the left, I assume, are the living quarters, the contestants’ chambers.
To the right, massive archways open into views of the outside world, framed by twisting columns carved with stars and strange symbols I can’t read. Through them, I see rows of trees.
I’m not sure how seasons work up here. In fact, I don’t think I ever imagined trees in the Court of the Fallen before—but there’re tons of them, and their leaves are turning colours, mimicking the reds and golds of autumn in the human world.
Their scent is so crisp, so rich. The breeze carries it in, warm and spiced, like cinnamon and campfire.
Everything here feels how I imagine heaven would be like.
But when it’s too good to be true, it’s most likely a trap.
The Fae leads me downstairs and down another corridor until we finally stop at a set of tall arched doors. They open into a massive hall, drenched in gold and black like they’re the Court’s official theme colours. All eyes turn to us—Fae, humans, other creatures I didn’t even know existed.
I press my lips together to keep me from gasping—and to ground myself from bolting.
The choices were between showing up in my bathrobe … or showing up late.
At least this one is only mildly humiliating.
I think.
“Welcome,” a voice says from inside—the terrifyingly beautiful female Fae from last night. “Cassandra Thorne, is it?”
I nod, stepping inside and trying very hard not to trip as I walk towards the group of humans standing in the middle of the hall.
A girl about my age—I’ve seen her in town a few times. A very chatty girl.
A guy a few years older than me who’s staring at my breasts and whistles as if saying hi—definitely a prick.
A lady whose eyes are locked to the floor like it’s talking to her.
A boy who looks about seventeen.
A middle-aged man, dressed sharply in a suit …
And then—
Shit.
Lucas.
Declan’s best friend.
“Cassandra,” he murmurs. His eyes widen in surprise and something like dread. “You shouldn’t be here.”
My breath catches. For a second, I can see Declan standing right beside him, just like old days, when we’d all go the beach, lie in the sun, and drink from midday until the stars came out.
I hadn’t seen Lucas since Declan’s funeral.
“Neither should you,” I whisper. “But here we are.”
“Shit, you really shouldn’t be here,” he repeats like he’s still stuck between disbelief and reality. “Please tell me you didn’t come here to do what I think you’re doing.”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Lucas doesn’t reply. He looks like he’s choking on fear and confusion.
The dark rings beneath his eyes tell me sadness has its grip on him, too.
I just hope we don’t have to kill each other at some point, because I’m not sure which one of us would survive, or if my soul’s already dark enough for me to drive a dagger into him when it comes to it.
But if we both want the same wish, then the odds are stacked.
Only one of us needs to survive.
Explaining to Declan how his girlfriend or his best friend died to bring him back is going to be one hell of a conversation.
But there’s no point going there just yet.
“I hope you are all well rested,” the beautiful Fae starts, gracing us with her pretty smile yet again. “My name is Aurora. I am the host of these trials.”
Aurora.
Gods, she really sounds like the Queen of Night or the Queen of Stars.
Or even both.
“It’s an honour to meet you, Aurora,” the guy who stared at my boobs says with a slight bow, like admiring some divine queen—I guess he doesn’t care what he flirts with, as long as it has breasts and two legs he can get between.
I don’t even want to know what his wish would be.
Aurora just blinks at him. I can feel the hall getting a little colder with that lethal stare.
“There will be three trials,” she continues, gaze sweeping over us.
“To give you time to prepare, and you know, calm down, and mourn”—Aurora pauses, voice dipped in syrup as if she didn’t just hint a death between trials—“you’ll have two weeks before each trial—except the final one. For that, you’ll get a full month.”
“A month?” The young boy gasps.
Aurora turns to him with something like amusement in her eyes. “Don’t worry, dear. Time moves differently here. It might be a month for us, but down there, it’ll only be four or five days.”
That means a week in the Court is a day in the human world.
Oh, Gods.
I didn’t realise how long I’d be stuck here. If I’m lucky enough to make it to the final round, I’ll be here for two months.