Chapter 9 #2
Shoving the feelings down, I let logic and strategy take root where my emotions refuse to abate.
As the others unload our luggage from the carriages, my eyes travel over the courtyard, noting the only points of entry are the sky-carriages behind us and the treacherous stairs leading down the mountain, both meeting in the courtyard hosting the arched oak doors leading into the palace.
No fewer than twenty guards line the courtyard walls, blending with the stone in their pristine white uniforms. I tuck those bits of information into the back of my mind, like I’m sure the rest of the Flight is also doing behind me.
The palace doors creak open, the sound echoing through the space, pulling my gaze away from the guards and toward a group of tycheroi approaching. An elegant lady—close to my age by her appearance—leads them, her golden skin glimmering in the sunlight and hair such a dark auburn it’s almost black.
The group comes to a stop a few paces from ours, and they all drop into perfectly timed bows and curtsies.
“Princess Aella, welcome to Vilea,” the lady says. As she rises, I meet her eyes—an intense red-brown that watch me with a mix of curiosity and mischief, matching the slanted smile curving her lips. “I am Lady Titaia.”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” I say with a smile of my own.
Lady Titaia is the king’s niece, taken into his care after her father died.
From the information Raven provided on the royal family of Eretria, while there is no open animosity between Prince Keres and his cousin, there are no unbreakable family bonds, either.
I wouldn’t consider her a potential ally, but it’s a weakness that could be exploited.
“Thank you for welcoming me to your court.”
“Allow me to escort you to the throne room. The royal family is waiting to receive you there,” she says, gesturing to the silent group behind her. “Our servants will assist yours in taking your belongings to your rooms.”
I take in the group as they hurry to collect trunks and luggage. My jaw clenches at the signs of age apparent among some of them: withering skin, graying hair, and stiff movements, despite their otherwise youthful looks.
Goiteían.
Servants employed by wealthier tycheroi to conduct the use of magic and goiteía marks for them. A sacrifice of another’s soul magic to hoard their own.
Disgust burns in the pit of my stomach, but I smother it, turning back to Lady Titaia with a forced smile. “I appreciate it.”
She pauses, her eyes sweeping over my Flight with a measured gaze. “Will they all be staying for the duration of the trials?”
“Yes,” I reply smoothly. “My handmaidens will remain with me, and I would be grateful if my other attendants could be housed in the servants’ quarters.
” Throughout the journey, our Flight had debated the best approach.
At first, they considered posing as guards, reasoning that a retinue would naturally accompany me during my travels.
However, trained fighters would attract more attention than servants, whose presence is far easier to overlook.
By adopting the guise of attendants, only my handmaidens would be expected to remain by my side, while the others could move freely about the castle, blending in under the pretense of attending to their duties.
Lady Titaia offers a subtle nod of apparent approval before gesturing toward the palace doors.
As she moves forward, I fall into step beside her, casting a glance over my shoulder just to ensure Nyssa and Myna follow.
Instead, my gaze snags on Raven again. His shoulders are rigid, his expression carefully controlled, but I don’t miss the tension pinching at the edges of his jaw.
Something flickers between us when his eyes meet mine, an unspoken current I despise for its existence.
He nods once, and for some reason, it feels damning when I catch myself nodding back.
I force myself to turn forward, pushing the lingering tension aside as I step through the towering palace doors.
The cool air of the entry hall greets me, biting against my skin, but it’s the sheer grandeur of the space that draws my attention.
A grand staircase leads to the floors above; banisters painted with liquid gold circle each floor and provide a barrier for the central void that rises as far as the eye can see.
Small glass orbs filled with light are suspended from the walls in golden brackets. When I glance around, I see them everywhere, illuminating masterful tapestries and paintings.
“They’re called auras,” Lady Titaia says beside me. “Sunlight trapped in glass marked with goiteía.”
My steps falter for half a second. I keep my expression neutral, though something coils tight in my chest.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, voice measured. “Do they last long?”
“They can be recharged in the sun. So, it’s not quite as wasteful as it seems.”
I scan the auras lining the walls—dozens of them, their glow steady and unnerving.
Even if they’re sun-fed, there are more than necessary.
Luxurious, maybe. Or indulgent. Either way, I’m not convinced by her sentiment.
I say nothing, and the silence stretches as I return to studying the space around us.
Apart from a few guards standing sentry, the space is devoid of life, our footsteps the only sound as we’re led toward the staircase.
As we climb, a murmur of noise becomes apparent, humming from behind the heavy oak doors on the landing ahead and Lady Titaia leans toward me. “Brace yourself, Princess Aella.”
Her warning barely registers before the doors open and hundreds of murmuring voices slam into me like a solid wall. The owners of those voices all turn to face us, and I suck in a sharp breath as I find myself the target of their pointed stares.
Mentally checking for cracks in my facade, I steel my spine, lift my chin with an imperious tilt, and follow her into the crowded hall.
I keep my eyes forward, fixed to the back of Lady Titaia’s head, watching the way the glass lights cast a gleaming circlet of gold on her dark auburn hair. In my peripheral vision, I note row after row of pews, each filled with immaculately dressed tycheroi who stare as we pass.
Whispers spread through the hall like wildfire.
I wonder what they have heard of me here. What they think they know of me. Do they repeat rumors of a daughter outcast on the Isle of the Winds? Or do they wonder if the whispers about my lack of the?kós hold any truth?
We reach the end of the hall, and Lady Titaia steps to the side, bringing me face-to-face with the royal family.
On a raised dais, overlooking the assembled guests, they sit in thrones of gold, framed by a grand tapestry bearing Eretria’s royal crest—a twisted oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching skyward.
A picture of regal beauty.
King Daedalus’s face is as hard as the stone this hall is carved from, giving away nothing of his emotions or thoughts.
The family resemblance is strong between him and his niece, though faint shadows under his rich red-brown eyes hint at a weariness that only deepens the malice coiling in their depths.
A shiver crawls up my spine, and I turn my gaze away, looking instead toward the woman on his right.
Dressed in a pleated gown of shimmering gray, Queen Atalana sits still as a statue, her figure looking as though it’s carved from marble.
Long dark hair falls in carefully placed curls around her slim shoulders.
Her expression is softer than the king’s, but her eyes are distant and her complexion pallid, even as she smiles down at me from her throne.
Awareness prickles the back of my neck, and I finally let my eyes drift to the last figure on the dais.
I’ve seen portraits of Prince Keres before, but seeing him in person has the air hitching in my throat.
His features are a striking combination of his mother’s and father’s.
Keres’s eyes are more red than brown, and mahogany hair streaked with shades of auburn falls in soft waves around a face that looks crafted by the gods themselves.
His build is leaner than that of his father but still well-muscled, his jacket hugging his broad shoulders and tapering to his waist.
He’s beautiful.
The rakish smile on his face tells me he knows it too.
But there’s a cruelty to the cut of his cheekbones, venom in the curl of his lips, and a coldness in his semblance that belie the warmth of his golden skin. Beneath the glimmer of interest in his eyes, something flashes in their depths. There and gone too quickly for me to fully understand.
“Princess Aella Sotiría of the Sorrows.” King Daedalus’s voice drags my attention from the prince. “It is an honor to have our friends from across the Solorai Sea in our home, and a delight to have you join the trials.”
“The honor is all mine, Your Majesty,” I say humbly, dipping into a curtsy. My hair falls over my shoulder—an ashen veil shielding me from the judging eyes and heavy stares.
When I rise, my face is a mask, as smooth as the polished stone around me.
“My queen, Atalana.” The king gestures to his wife. “And my son, Prince Keres, who I am sure you are well aware of.”
“A pleasure, Your Majesty.” I bow my head to the queen, and she offers a small smile in return.
I look back at the prince, holding his red gaze. That same expression flashes through his eyes, and I recognize it for what it is.
Predatory.
A cat with a canary in its sight, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Little does he know; this songbird’s talons are sharp.
Calliope’s lessons echo through my mind, a spectral voice guiding me at this moment.
Some men relish the hunt. But first, you must convince them you’re worth the chase.
I let a slow smile unfurl across my lips, looking up at him from beneath my lashes. I drop my voice to a husky tone as I greet him. “Prince.”
His reaction is barely perceptible, but I watch him closely enough to notice the slight flare of his nostrils. He inclines his head ever so slightly as he responds in kind. “Princess.”
As we hold each other’s gaze—neither of us willing to relent first—I notice silence has infiltrated the hall, the gathered tycheroi holding their breath as though they’re waiting for their prince to pass judgment.
King Daedalus claps his hands, the sharp sound breaking the heavy silence in the grand hall and pulling me from my staring contest. The single commanding gesture demands everyone’s attention, and I straighten instinctively under his piercing gaze.
“As part of the trials, each competitor will be assigned a mentor from our family to guide them through life at court,” he announces.
“Lady Titaia will attend to you and escort you to your quarters so you may settle in.”
From the corner of my eye, I glance at the lady. She inclines her head slightly in acknowledgment, though her face remains composed and unreadable. Her posture is as poised as her expression.
With the rumors of the strained relationship between Lady Titaia and her cousin, I can’t help but wonder if this is some kind of slight.
Yet, as with so many rumors, perhaps there is little truth to this one.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for your thoughtfulness and generosity,” I say, my tone measured—neutral yet respectful—resisting the urge to look at the prince again.
I may need to tread a delicate balance with him, navigating somewhere between genuine interest and subtle indifference.
For now I keep my focus firmly on King Daedalus.
“Since you are the last competitor to arrive, and the trials cannot be delayed, the opening ceremony will commence tomorrow evening,” he continues without acknowledging my words. “Use this time to rest while you can. You will need it for what lies ahead.”
At the clear dismissal, I give a final curtsy to the royals. My eyes seek our guide as I rise. I don’t have to look far as she steps up to my side, tilting her head toward the same doors we entered through.
Turning to the others, I gesture for Nyssa and Myna to follow. They have been waiting quietly during the entire exchange, and their faces remain impassive, though I can see the way their eyes take in every detail around us.
We make our way out of the hall, striding back down the aisle as we ignore the lingering stares that track our every move.
Once we pass through the arched doors again, I can finally take a deep breath.
I hold on to my composure as Titaia takes my hand and slips it through her arm, guiding me down the hall.
“That was a marvelous performance, Princess,” she says with a sly smile.
“Performance?” I ask, drawing her to a stop so I can face her. I force my body to remain relaxed, though her words stir anxiety deep in my gut. With my arm in hers, she would notice if I tensed up, and I can’t risk raising suspicion so early in the game.
“Yes.” She nods, her sharp eyes wandering over my face. “I haven’t seen anyone look Keres in the eye for so long before.”
Worry sparks, flaming the anxiety to a roar. I bite my lip as I replay my actions in my head, examining each moment to see if I did anything that could be taken as an insult. “Did I offend him?”
“On the contrary, I think you have thoroughly captured his attention.” Titaia flashes me a reassuring smile and tugs me forward. “Now come along. I’m sure you’re tired from your long journey across the sea.”
It’s not until she says it that a wave of exhaustion rolls over me.
The excitement of the past couple of weeks drains from me, leaving my limbs heavy with fatigue.
All I long for now is a night of uninterrupted sleep, free from the relentless sway of a ship or the unyielding seat of a carriage beneath me.
With a small sigh of relief, I let her lead us on.
The board has been set, the players are in motion, and now all the pieces just need to fall into place.