45. The Landing
The Landing
Falling.
True freefall. The wind tore at my clothes, my hair, screaming past my ears as our bodies cut through cloud and sky.
I kept my eyes open at first, watching the burning palace grow smaller above us, its golden flames a funeral pyre against the night. My hand remained locked with Thatcher's. Marx's scream had faded to shocked silence, her body a blur of movement on Thatcher's other side.
Time stretched and compressed, impossible to measure. Seconds? Minutes? There was no reference point in the endless blue-black, just the rushing air growing colder, the pressure building against my skin as we plummeted faster.
I wondered if we had misunderstood the rules—if instead of a test of restraint, this had been a test of sacrifice. Perhaps there was no salvation waiting, only the inevitability of impact.
Or perhaps we’d fall forever.
I closed my eyes then, seeking some shred of peace in what might have been my final moments. My thoughts scattered like the clouds we tore through—fragments of memory, of regret, of things left unsaid and undone.
But if this was death, at least I was not alone.
The air around us shifted, pressure building against my back, slowing our descent with such abruptness that my body jerked against the resistance. For one wild moment, I thought we'd hit ground—but there was no impact, no shattering pain, just a strange sensation of being cradled by the air.
Our fall gentled. My stomach lurched as we drifted and finally touched down on solid ground with unexpected gentleness.
My legs buckled immediately, muscles unprepared for the sudden stability. I climbed to my knees, dragging in ragged breaths as my body remembered how to exist in a world with boundaries again.
"What the—" Thatcher's voice broke through the ringing in my ears. "Thais, look."
I raised my head, blinking away the moisture the wind had whipped into my eyes—and froze.
We stood on the same terrace we'd just leapt from, except there were no flames, no destruction, no evidence of the inferno that had consumed the palace moments ago. The elegant architecture gleamed pristine and perfect in the starlight.
More shocking still were the figures that lined the terrace, watching us. The Legends and Aesymar from the ball—all of them untouched, unharmed, dressed in their finery as though they'd been waiting for our arrival as some perverse welcoming committee.
My gaze darted frantically from face to face, searching for guards, for some sign that I was about to be seized.
Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to flee, though there was nowhere to go.
They must have seen it—the illusion of Olinthar's body, my starblade buried in his chest, the evidence of my darkest desire for vengeance.
If the viewing portals had shown my shame to the masses in Voldaris, then surely justice would be swift and merciless .
"It wasn't real," Marx whispered beside me, her voice cracking. "None of it was real."
But that wasn't entirely true. The terror had been real. The choices had been real. And my desire to plunge a blade into Olinthar's heart—that had been real too.
Yet no one approached. No accusatory fingers pointed in my direction. The Legends continued their conversations, hardly sparing us a glance.
I scanned the faces of the other contestants who had made it through the trial before us. Nine heads, including myself, Marx, and Thatcher.
Kyren should have been ten. My chest constricted at the thought. He'd nearly made it.
At the far end of the terrace, elevated above the rest of the gathering, sat two thrones. The beings who occupied them couldn't have been more different from one another, yet they shared the same aura of ancient, terrible power. Two of the Twelve.
The one to the left was ethereal beauty incarnate—pale skin that shimmered in swirling patterns, hair so white it beamed with opalescent hues, and those intense, golden eyes.
Her gown shifted between states, parts of it becoming nearly transparent before solidifying once more.
Syrena, Aesymar of Dreams and Illusions. It had to be.
Beside her sat Pyralia, Aesymar of Fire and Passion.
Where Syrena was ethereal, Pyralia was a wild, raging force—skin the rich bronze of sun-baked earth, hair that seemed to shift between shades of flame with each subtle movement.
Her gown appeared to be made from magma itself, rolling down her curves.
Of course. Illusions and passion. The perfect combination to craft a trial based on burning desires.
"Contestants," Syrena's voice cut through the murmured conversations, silencing them instantly. "You stand before us as survivors of the third trial—the trial of restraint."
"Some of you burned," Pyralia continued. "Consumed by desires you could not master, by illusions you chose to believe despite our warnings."
"Others fled," Syrena added, "but found no escape from the flames of your own making."
"Only those who recognized the truth—that desire unchecked becomes destruction—found salvation in trusting the unknown." Pyralia's gaze swept over us.
"The freefall," Syrena concluded. "The willingness to face the ether rather than burn."
I should have been listening, absorbing every word for potential advantage in whatever Trials remained.
Instead, my mind spiraled into panic.
They had seen. They had all seen my desires made manifest.
My skin burned hotter as humiliation crashed through me. I kept my eyes fixed on the marble floor. When I finally gathered the courage to glance up, I found myself instinctively searching for one particular face in the crowd.
But it wasn’t Xül’s eyes who found me. It was Nyvora’s. Xül stood at the edge of the gathering, his expression unreadable. Nyvora clung to his arm like some beautiful parasite, her gaze narrowed on me. But Xül—Xül wouldn't look at me at all. His gaze remained determinedly fixed elsewhere.
He had seen everything—had witnessed my weakness, my desire, my shame—and now he couldn't even bear to look at me.
"You are dismissed," Syrena's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "Rest. Recover. Prepare. The final trial awaits."
The crowd dispersed, Legends collecting their remaining contestants, conversations resuming in hushed tones. Thatcher gave me a quick, fierce hug.
"Chavore is waiting for me," he said, his voice still rough from smoke. "We'll talk next time?"
Gods. There was so much I'd needed to discuss with Thatcher—Kavik, Lyralei's warning, everything that had happened since we'd last truly spoken. But the drugged wine and the chaos of the trial had stolen that opportunity from us. And now, it was too late.
I simply nodded, watching as he crossed to where his mentor waited. As he approached, I caught fragments of their conversation.
"...Kavik?" Thatcher was asking.
Chavore shrugged, unconcerned. "Without a contestant, he likely didn't see the point in attending tonight."
I frowned.
Either Chavore was an exceptional actor, or Bellarium wasn’t aware of Kavik's fate.
"Come on," Marx murmured, linking her arm through mine. "Let's go."
I let her lead me across the terrace to where Xül, Aelix, and Nyvora stood in conversation. Xül still refused to look at me, his gaze fixed resolutely on some distant point over my head. The pain of his rejection twisted deeper.
Aelix, at least, seemed genuinely pleased to see us. He stepped forward, clasping Marx's free hand warmly.
"Well done, both of you," he said, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners. "They even deceived us. It wasn’t until we were swept here that any of the Legends realized this was the third trial. The last time I saw you, Marx, you didn’t look so great. Good thing you two have each other."
A laugh nearly escaped me at that. If he only knew how close I'd come to surrendering completely, how the illusion had nearly consumed me before the warning came.
"Marx," Aelix continued, "might I have a word?"
Marx squeezed my arm once before releasing me and allowing Aelix to lead her away, leaving me standing awkwardly before Xül and Nyvora. The silence stretched.
"I should create a portal," Xül finally said, still not meeting my eyes. "The hour grows late."
He turned to go, and I moved instinctively to follow him.
I had taken only one step when vice-like fingers clamped around my elbow, nails digging into my skin. Nyvora leaned close, her breath hot against my ear.
"You pathetic, delusional little mortal," she hissed, her voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "Did you truly believe he would want you? That you could compete with me? You’re repulsive to him.”
I tried to pull away, but her grip only tightened, those thorn-like nails breaking skin.
"I might not have been able to see you throwing yourself at my fiancé," she continued, "but I heard every word you said to him. Every desperate, shameful plea. We all did."
My heart stuttered, her words penetrating the haze of humiliation that clouded my thoughts. She couldn't see...?
"The illusions were private," she confirmed, reading the question in my expression. "But sound carries across the viewing portals. We heard everything, even if we could only see you writhing against thin air like a cat in heat."
Relief crashed through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckled. They hadn't seen Olinthar's body. Hadn't seen me standing over his corpse with a bloodied starblade.
"If you ever approach him again," Nyvora was saying, "I will ensure you fail the final trial in ways so spectacular they'll tell stories of your humiliation for centuries."
A cold clarity replaced my fear.
I twisted in her grip, breaking her hold. My own hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist.
"Careful, Nyvora," I said, my voice steady despite the rapid beating of my heart.
Her eyes widened, surprise flickering across her perfect features before hardening into contempt.
I released her with a small shove, "If Xül truly found me as repulsive as you claim, why would you need to threaten me at all?"
The barb struck home. Fury bloomed across her face, color rising beneath her golden skin .
"You know nothing," she spat.
"Perhaps," I agreed, a reckless smile touching my lips. "But I know fear when I smell it. And right now, Nyvora, you reek."
I turned away to end the conversation but she was at my back in a second.
“The only reason I haven't killed you myself is because it would be unsightly to take out the contestant of my future betrothed.”
I ignored her, following the path Xül had taken toward the edge of the terrace. My heart hammered against my ribs, adrenaline singing through my veins. I had likely just made another powerful enemy even more determined to see me fail.
Xül waited at the portal. Without hesitation, I stepped through.
And then I was back at the Bone Spire. I headed straight for my room, my gaze fixed on the stone floor ahead, afraid that looking back at him would shatter what little composure I had left.
The familiar staircase seemed endless tonight, each step requiring more effort than the last, until finally my chamber door materialized at the corridor's end.
I slipped inside, turning the lock with trembling fingers before my legs gave out completely.
As I slid down against the cold wood, the tears I'd been holding back broke free at last, falling silently in the darkness of a room that had never felt so empty.