Chapter 11
Nyx
Surprisingly, after Soryn’s pronouncement, the throne room erupts in cheers.
The sound crashes over me all at once, deafening after the sharp humiliation of the gods’ laughter.
Applause breaks out from every direction, the viewers above, behind, and around us clapping wildly enough to make the very walls seem to tremble.
For a moment, I simply stand there, overwhelmed. I just can’t make sense of it. Surely they are not cheering for us.
My first thought is that they’re entertained, delighted by the obvious tension, by the cruelty of pairing cursed Thorian with someone so clearly unequipped for this competition. Perhaps they find it amusing, the thought of watching yet another one of his partners die spectacularly.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
And yet, stubbornly, foolishly, I force myself to consider another possibility. Perhaps they’re cheering for the spectacle of the unexpected. For the absurdity of seeing a woman like me standing here at all. Perhaps a few of them even admire the audacity it took to step forward.
I cling to that thought, however fragile.
Before I can make any further sense of it, movement erupts around us as the other teams begin shifting and jostling into motion. The sudden chaos sends my thoughts spinning all over again.
Is there more Thorian hasn’t told me? How much of what I thought I understood has been a lie of omission?
Then his hand closes firmly around my arm. The touch startles me.
Without a word, he begins steering me through the crush of bodies, pulling me away from the center of the room as I catch sight of Fenric moving toward us, his expression intent, as though he means to say something. But the look on Thorian’s face stops him short.
A fresh knot tightens in my stomach.
Whatever Thorian is about to say, I have the sinking feeling I am not going to like it.
Leading me out of the room, Thorian’s voice is low and soft in my ear. “We need to talk.”
Thorian doesn’t explain further. His hand remains firm at my arm as he guides me from the throne room and down a maze of gleaming corridors, his long strides forcing me to hurry to keep pace.
We pass towering windows and polished marble columns, servants flattening themselves against the walls to let us pass, but he says nothing.
When he finally pushes open a pair of gilded doors and leads me out onto a balcony, the questions already rising to my lips vanish. The city stretches endlessly before me, and for one breathless moment, everything else falls away.
Eryndor glows beneath the deepening dusk, thousands of warm orange lights flickering in windows like captured stars.
Wide stone streets cut neat paths through the city, crowded with carriages that look no larger than toys from this height.
People move in steady streams along the walkways below, their voices drifting faintly upward in a soft, distant hum.
Beyond the clustered buildings, I can make out taller structures of brick and polished stone reaching toward the darkening sky.
A great mill turns slowly in the distance, its massive wheel catching the last traces of light as it spins.
Smoke rises from dozens of chimneys, curling into the evening air.
It is overwhelming. Beautiful. Its sheer vastness makes me feel very small.
Then I remember why we’re here. The cheers. The laughter. The gods’ cruel revelations.
My stomach tightens, and I force my attention away from the view and back to Thorian.
He’s watching me, his dark expression unreadable, and a fresh wave of unease moves through me. Whatever he’s brought me out here to say, I have the sinking feeling I’m not going to like it.
“Well, how do you feel?” Thorian asks, and I blink, struggling to decide exactly how I feel.
The way he looks at me is guarded, like usual, but also nearly combative, like he’s dropping back on his heels and raising his fists, getting ready for a fight. I realize he’d probably expected me to start talking as soon as we came out here.
From his perspective, he probably imagined I would rip into him once we got to a private spot, away from the jeering eyes of those betting on our failure.
The thought of me berating him makes laughter explode from my lips.
I’m desperate, and he’s the only one willing to help me. Why would I be mad at him?
“Are you…laughing?” he asks, his voice a bit uncertain. The question comes out with the same tenor as Are you mad?
My laughter dies, and my smile fades. Right. Laughing is really not the thing I should be doing right now.
“Am I happy about the fact that you didn’t tell me something so important?
” I ask, stepping to the edge of the balcony and laying my hands on the cool stone, returning my gaze to the city below.
“Of course not. And it’s not the greatest news in the world to learn of your previous partners.
To have seen their gruesome deaths. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. ”
“It doesn’t?” Thorian echoes, coming to my side, his eyes narrowed, voice suspicious.
“No.” When I turn to him, tilting my head and catching his eye, I see the expression of a man who is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. “We’re still working together, aren’t we?”
His jaw tenses, his eyes flicking out toward the view before returning to mine. “If you want.”
“I said it in there,” I say as I gesture in the direction of the throne room. “I made my choice.”
“It seemed possible that you only said that… for them.”
I shake my head. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”
He lifts a brow. “You don’t?”
I sigh. That’s not true.
“I think I understand why,” I admit. “Your father isn’t exactly universally like, nor are the demi-gods, their, frankly, bratty offspring.
But you should know that my reasons for potentially hating you go deeper than that.
Your father made my family’s life a living nightmare.
He cursed us because my mother refused him.
Every hardship we’ve endured since can be traced back to him.
I should look at you and see Valtor. I should hate you simply because you’re his son.
But I don’t. My father taught me to judge people by what they do, not who they’re related to, and everything you’ve done since we met has been to prepare me, protect me, and give me the best chance of surviving these Trials. You’re nothing like your father.”
For a long moment, Thorian says nothing.
His expression doesn't soften. If anything, it hardens, his jaw tightening as he looks away toward the city below.
“You don't know me well enough to say that,” he says quietly.
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But I know enough.”
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, almost as though the words cost him. When he finally looks back at me, his expression is unreadable.
“..But?”
“I don’t think we’re going to make it out of the Trials alive with secrets between us. I, for one, am not a good enough fighter to forgo information. There should be trust. I certainly shouldn’t be blindsided in a room full of asshats and then have to pretend I already knew your secret.”
Thorian, to his credit, sports pinked cheeks, like he’s only just imagined how that might have felt for me. Then he grinds out the words, like he’s not used to saying them, “I apologize for that.”
I dip my head. “Let’s agree to share anything the other would deem relevant.
And if we’re not sure, we share it anyway.
” Thorian’s face hardens like I knew it would.
He’s not a man who likes to talk about himself.
Aside from his name, his dislike for his father Valtor, and now the fact that he’s competed before.
“Should there be anything that our opponents could use against us, I believe the other should know. It is a matter of life and death, after all.”
His eyes shift from mine once more, moving so quickly I almost miss it. It’s a microcosm of the way his body moves, swiftly, with an impossible grace. Finally, with what appears to be a certain level of pain, he forces out, “You have my word, Lady Nyx.”
The sound of my name on his lips is disarming. I ignore it.
We stand together, the weight of this agreement settled firmly between us.
Perhaps now we’re more of a team than we were before.
Or, perhaps, words are just words. I try to think of Ivor, what advice he might give me, but my mind’s so scrambled in Thorian’s presence that I can’t summon the fictional advice of my friend.
When I can’t stand the silence, I clear my throat and ask, “So why have you competed so many times?”
My own motivations make sense to me, and surely to Thorian and all the others. I want my sister returned safely to me. I want to ensure she’s not married off to a gaggle of men who would abuse and neglect her.
Which is why I’m risking my life. Mine for hers. It’s the only logical course of action.
But after entering the trials so often, is there really no other way Thorian could find to get the thing he wants? Does it make sense for him to risk his life so many times only to face failure again and again?
Thorian’s jaw tightens again, and I have to resist the strange urge to reach up and smooth away the tension gathered there.
There is a quiet vulnerability in him that makes me want to help, to ease the invisible strain that seems to accompany every difficult truth he forces himself to voice.
I can see the effort it costs him, the careful way he turns each word over before allowing it to leave his mouth, as though speaking plainly does not come naturally to him.
I've noticed it over these past few days.
Thorian does not speak carelessly. Every sentence feels measured, chosen with deliberate precision, as though he is forever translating thoughts from a private language only he understands.
And though the reckless part of me wants to fill the silence for him, to press or prod until the answer comes, I force myself to remain still.