Chapter 8
Nyx
When we return to the palace only a few days later, my body is sore from constant training, but I have a modicum of confidence in my ability to fight once we finally enter the trials.
In fact, training has opened a door for me.
It’s like I’ve finally found an outlet for my endless frustration and fury.
I can see why men choose to work out like this, punching bags of grains, play fighting.
Perhaps the fact that ladies are discouraged from such things, at least in polite society, has much to do with the alarming rates of fainting and ailments of the mind.
Keeping every feeling bottled inside while being expected to behave perfectly seems a particular kind of torture, now that I’ve finally had the chance to release that anger.
The gods will regret taking my sister as their prize.
Last night, as we were cleaning up the sparring room for the last time, Thorian had cleared his throat and said, “You’re a fast learner, that’s true.
But when we’re out there, you should default to evasion and staying near me.
Remember, while you’ve been training for days, most of these warriors have been training all their lives. ”
Perhaps it should’ve hurt my pride to hear that. Instead, it was a relief, since that was already my intention. Hiding and staying close to him are definitely the best things I can do if I want to stay alive long enough to save Lyra.
Now, we stride into the palace along with many of the other competitors, and it truly feels as though I’m walking amongst giants, their shoulders high enough above me that I would have to hop to touch them. It makes me feel like a child. Like a foolish girl with my dagger and slight frame.
Still, I do as my mother would expect and walk with my head held high, my gaze fixed firmly ahead.
Servants in gleaming white and gold move swiftly around us, guiding the competitors deeper into the palace with quiet gestures of practiced precision.
Their slippers whisper over polished marble floors.
Somewhere farther ahead, a quartet of strings rises and falls in elegant harmony, accompanied by the low hum of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter that echo through the vast halls.
The air smells of beeswax and expensive perfume, of fresh flowers and rich, savory aromas drifting from unseen kitchens.
It's familiar, yet strangely distant. Five years ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about such luxury.
Now, every polished surface and carefully placed decoration feels like a reminder of a life I no longer belong to.
We pass beneath impossibly high archways carved with scenes of gods and monsters.
Golden sconces line the walls, their flames dancing without smoke.
Massive windows stretch toward ceilings so high they seem to vanish into darkness, the moonlight spilling through them in pale silver ribbons across the floor.
Valtor laughs somewhere ahead, the sound booming through the corridors like distant thunder.
I catch Thorian sending a withering glare in that direction. Maybe it’s a hatred for all divine beings, which is more than common, but I pick up on a specific disdain for Valtor himself.
It pleases me. I share that sentiment.
At last, the servants guide us through towering gilded doors, and the sight beyond nearly stops me in my tracks.
This time, we’re not in the throne room, but rather a massive ballroom, filled with hundreds of tables.
It sports just as much gold as the throne room, if not more.
Candlelight glints off every polished surface, giving one the impression of standing inside a precious metal womb.
Above us hangs a canopy of glittering stars, suspended low over the gathering, no doubt spun into existence by Soryn herself.
In fact, we can see the effects of each of the gods.
Crystal channels of water wind through the room in delicate suspended streams, weaving through the air like living ribbons before cascading into towering glass fountains.
There, with a lazy sweep of Aqualis’s hand, the clear water darkens into rich red wine, the scent of berries and oak unfurling through the room as goblets drift beneath the streams to fill themselves.
Every table bears Eryndor's brilliance. Food remains perfectly warm, as though it has only just left the kitchens.
New dishes appear with uncanny timing, arriving through hidden lifts built into the floor.
Servants move through the room like parts of a well-practiced dance, each action so seamless it is almost invisible.
Nothing is wasted. Nothing delayed. Every detail has been orchestrated to perfection.
And then there are the breathtaking arrangements of flowers and vines from Terranis, curling around the columns and spilling from planters beside the buffet tables.
Though they’re beautiful, it’s also clear they’re desperate to return to their divine wildness, growing out of their pots and blooming high into the room, leaves brushing against the ceiling.
Occasionally, Terranis waves a hand, and the plants shrink back down as though cowed into submission.
The room is packed with wealthy residents, all murmuring, drinking, and dancing together. I can practically smell the money and privilege on them, a world I was once steeped in myself. Fine perfumes and the easy confidence of people certain life will unfold exactly as they expect.
For them, this is all part of the Pantheora celebration, which stretches over several weeks. It’s our most sacred of celebrations. They’ve come not only for the good food and drink, but to watch several of their fellow citizens compete in a brutal and bloody competition over these prizes.
Entertainment.
“Come on,” Thorian says gruffly, taking my elbow and pulling me toward one of the tables.
Only then do I realize I’ve come to a complete stop to take it all in, and despite the warmth blooming through me at his touch, I’m grateful for his direction.
“Might as well enjoy the free food.”
And he’s right. Hilda had worried about the next time I might get a home-cooked meal.
Perhaps this isn’t home-cooked by Hilda's standards, but it looks incredible. There are tables and tables of food, an unending sea of luscious offerings we couldn’t hope to produce even when my family still had favor and money.
One table is piled with nature’s bounty, grapes and cherries plump with juice, their vines hanging from the corners of the table tantalizingly.
Several exotic fruits are cut into interesting shapes, balanced on shining silver.
Beside the fruit is an array of cheeses in colors I would have thought impossible if I were not seeing them with my own eyes. White and gold sit beside wheels of pale pink and deep purple, while one shimmering blue seems almost enchanted, catching the candlelight like polished stone.
I find myself staring.
At home, cheese is simple and practical, meant to fill bellies and stretch through leaner months. This feels excessive, crafted for spectacle rather than sustenance.
Yet another table boasts roasts and glistening cuts of meat from animals I cannot even identify. It’s enough to feed my people for months, perhaps longer, all dark and dripping with butter, fragrant with garlic and unfamiliar herbs that make my stomach tighten despite the anger rising in me.
Thorian and I visit each offering, and when my plate is too full, he takes it and passes me an empty one, running the full ones back to our spots. I feel as giddy as a girl, like Thorian and I have snuck into a gathering for adults and are slipping treats under the table.
By the time we’re seated with the other teams, I’m drunk with hunger and happiness, the sweetness of the fine wine on my tongue, the luxury of a thick slice of roast beef on my fork. How long has it been since we had anything other than chicken? A meat not dry and scant like it’s been back home?
Occasionally, I glance up and find Thorian watching me eat. Perhaps he’s thinking about how unladylike I’m being now, but if I follow traditional conventions for table manners, I’m afraid I won’t finish in time.
And there is no chance I’ll leave a single bite behind.
By the time I glance up from my plate, I’ve already devoured far more than I would’ve thought possible, but one look around the room tells me to keep going.
The other competitors are eating too, most of them towering men built of hard muscle and broad shoulders, clearing plate after plate with quiet focus. None of them linger over conversation. None seem distracted by the spectacle around us. They eat like people preparing for war.
The sight should dampen my appetite, should remind me how badly outmatched I am among fighters who’ve spent their lives training for this.
Instead, it steels me. If men that size believe they need this much sustenance to face what comes next, then I’d be a fool not to force down every bite I can manage.
So I keep eating, determined to take whatever advantage I can.
As I lift my gaze to survey the room once more, it catches on a man seated several tables away.
For a breath, I can only stare. He is devastatingly handsome in a way that feels almost unfair, all bright golden hair, broad shoulders, and the sort of lean muscle that speaks of speed rather than brute force.
Candlelight glances across the strong planes of his face, catching in impossibly bright blue eyes that gleam like polished ice.
And then I see the dark crimson drink resting before him.
Vampire.
A chill slips down my spine, unbidden memories of the horsemen who tore Lyra from me flashing through my mind. My fingers tighten around my fork.
As though sensing my stare, he looks up. Those glinting blue eyes lock onto mine from across the room, and instead of looking away, his mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile that sends a strange rush of heat skittering through me.
Predatory. Amused. Entirely too confident.
I shiver.