Chapter Twenty-Two
Farah
Her fingers dragged slowly along the seam for what must have been the fifth or sixth time, feeling the fine give of the fabric beneath her touch.
It wasn’t worn down by years of use, nor stiff with utility like the leathers she had lived in for most of her life.
The stitching was deliberate. Crafted. Meant to be slipped over her skin with ease.
As delicate and exceptionally stitched as any gown she wore.
Each thread was placed with precision, making the seams nearly invisible. Whoever had made them had known exactly what they were doing. Worse—they had known her.
Farah exhaled through her nose, shifting her weight as she stood in the center of her chambers.
The fire behind her crackled low, embers casting a dim, amber glow that flickered at the stone walls and left the corners of the room in shadow.
Outside, the wind howled through the mountains, rattling faintly against the glass panes, carrying with it the distant echo of drums beginning somewhere far below.
Haloa had already begun.
Her gaze flicked up toward her reflection.
The sweater was worse than the breeches.
It draped over her frame in a way that should have felt foreign—too warm, too fitted.
Almost intentional. The knit clung just slightly at her wrists, her waist, but left enough room to move, to breathe, to fight even, need be.
It softened the harsh lines of her usual silhouette, made her look less like a weapon and more like something human.
She hated that it was the most marvelous thing she ever wore. Her jaw tightened as she stared at herself.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, dragging her hands down the front of the fabric as if she could somehow strip the comfort from it. “It’s just clothing.”
But it wasn’t. Chloe hadn’t needed to give her this. Haloa was so much more than trinkets and gifts exchanged between friends. Between lovers.
Farah’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. Chloe’s voice slipped into her mind without warning. You. The word echoed, soft and certain, threading through her thoughts like a whisper she could not silence.
It wasn’t possible. Even after Chloe’s memories were stripped from her in the first trial, somehow she still wanted Farah. The Mysteries did not lie. They twisted. They provoked. They peeled back layers until nothing remained but the truth beneath, but they did not lie.
Chloe had looked at her—really looked at her—and answered without hesitation. Not politics. Not strategy. Not survival. Every reason why she had first said that they were engaged.
Farah pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until color burst behind them, until the pressure grounded her in something real.
It would be easy to lean into it—the way Chloe’s presence steadied something in her that had long since fractured.
Easy to let herself exist in that space between them, where things felt simpler.
Softer. Dangerous. Because the world did not allow for softness.
Khalid Athanas had made sure of that.
The thought alone was enough to turn her stomach. Her hands dropped slowly, her breathing uneven now as memory clawed its way forward—uninvited, unwanted, unstoppable. Golden hair tangled with blood. Amber eyes dimming. The sharp, metallic scent of iron thick in the air. Celene.
Farah’s chest constricted so tightly it felt as if her ribs might crack under the pressure. It didn’t matter who or what Chloe was. Princess. Heir. Powerful. None of it would save her. Khalid did not destroy based on status. He destroyed based on weakness and Chloe was Farah’s last weakness left.
She would not bury another person she cared about.
Would not watch another life bleed out because of her.
Her gaze drifted back to the mirror despite herself.
To the sweater. To the softness she had allowed, if only for a moment.
Her resolve wavered. Because for the first time in years, walking away did not feel like survival.
It felt like something that would ruin her.
A sharp knock cut through the silence.
Farah’s head snapped toward the door instantly, instincts flaring, body going still in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Enter,” she called, already shifting her stance, already aware of every possible angle in the room.
The door opened before she had even gotten the word out and Acacius stepped inside as if he belonged there. He paused just beyond the threshold, his gaze sweeping over her slowly—not lingering inappropriately, not crude—but observant. Calculating. Taking in everything.
“The new outfit suits you,” he said, one shoulder leaning lazily against the doorframe.
Farah arched a brow, though her fingers flexed slightly at her sides. “Careful, prince,” she replied dryly. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It was,” he said easily. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
A faint huff of amusement escaped her before she could stop it. “You’re late,” she added, glancing briefly toward the darkening window.
“Am I?” He pushed off the frame, stepping further into the room. “Or were you simply not ready to be seen?”
The words landed sharper than they should have. Farah stilled for a fraction of a second. He noticed too much.
“Must you always speak in riddles?” she asked coolly, turning away to grab her cloak.
“Fine. I am here to escort you, dear princess. As you requested,” he replied. “Haloa waits for no one. Not even reluctant brides.”
She scoffed, swinging the cloak around her shoulders. “I am not reluctant. Just not a person particularly conscious of time.”
He smirked faintly but said nothing. As she moved toward the door, she hesitated—just barely. The question slipped out before she could bury it.
“Have you seen Chloe?”
Acacius went quiet for a beat. “No,” he said at last. “Why? Were you looking for her?”
Farah’s jaw tightened. “I think she’s avoiding me.”
“Interesting,” he murmured, stepping aside. “I find avoidance far more honest than whatever game you are playing.”
She didn’t answer, because she wasn’t sure he was wrong.
The cold hit her like a blade the moment they stepped outside.
Farah drew in a slow breath, the chill biting into her lungs, sharpening her senses, dragging her back into herself.
Below them, the fields burned with life.
The bonfire roared at the center, flames spiraling upward, devouring the night sky.
Sparks scattered like dying stars, swallowed by the dark.
Drums pulsed in a deep, rhythmic cadence she could feel in her bones.
Around the fire, figures moved. Not danced—moved.
Wild. Unrestrained. Bodies swaying, stomping, spinning in patterns that felt older than language itself. Furs draped across shoulders, masks obscuring faces—wolves, bears, creatures of myth and nightmare.
It was ritualistic and far more primal than anything Farah had ever known. Her gaze swept the crowd searching for silver hair and sharp eyes. A presence she could feel even without seeing. Something tight and unwelcome coiled in her chest.
“She isn’t here,” Farah muttered.
Acacius glanced at her sidelong. “So you do care that she’s avoiding you.”
“Of course I do,” she replied too quickly.
He hummed, but didn’t say another word. They walked along the outer edge of the celebration, where the firelight dimmed and shadows stretched longer. The heat barely reached them here, the cold creeping back in with every step. For a while, neither spoke.
“The hallucinations,” Farah said.
Acacius’s attention sharpened instantly. “What about them?”
She kept her gaze forward. “Did you see them? When we went through the second trial?”
He paused for a moment, cocking his head to the side. “No.”
She frowned. “No?”
“They are not meant to be seen by anyone other than those that drank the kykeon,” he said.
“Why? The first trial—”
His gaze flicked toward the fire. “The first trial was your memories. Memories are shared freely. The kykeon shows truths,” he said slowly. “The kind people spend their entire lives avoiding. Did you learn nothing from our lessons, phoinix?”
Farah’s stomach tightened.
Acacius continued. “They bind you to the person who sees them with you. It is an intimacy the Fates do not wish to be shared.”
Her pulse quickened. “So whatever happened?”
“Stays between the two of you.”
That almost made it worse. Because it meant Chloe remembered everything too and still refused to speak with her.
“May I ask you something?” Farah questioned, rubbing at her palms until faint scratch marks appeared.
He shrugged and swatted at her hands in a way she imagined her brother would do. If her brother wasn’t an absolute fool. “You can, though I might not be at liberty to share anything else about the Mysteries.”
“Kalliope.” Acacius went still. Completely. “You never talk about her,” Farah pressed.
Acacius reached into his pocket, retrieving a thin gold band covered in rubies, rubbing it in a way that seemed daunting and intimate. “She fell ill,” he said. “Two years ago.”
Farah blinked. “Ill?”
“One day she was fine. The next she had a searing pain in her head, something she never experienced before.” He exhaled, closing his eyes. “Within hours, she was gone.”
“That doesn’t just happen.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
His hands curled at his sides. “It was the Mysteries. I just know it. There are consequences. Decisions that follow you out.”
Farah’s breath slowed and her skin peppered with goosebumps.
“There is a breaking point,” he continued. “In the third trial. A moment where…” He stopped.
“What?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I’ve said too much.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting, phoinix, I am sorry.”
Frustration flared hot and sharp in Farah’s gut. If there was something that could help her survive the last trial she needed to know. “Gods, you are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said dryly, “you keep asking questions.”
Farah turned back toward the fire. But his words lingered. A breaking point. A consequence. And for the first time, she wondered if what the Mysteries would demand from her next would be something she could not give up.