Chapter 10
The palace is as beautiful within as it is from without.
A masterpiece of stark white marble, towering pillars, and intricately carved frescoes that breathe life into ancient myths and legends.
But when we arrive at the courtyard hosting the trials’ opening ceremony the following evening, it’s as if we’ve entered an entirely different world.
Colored lanterns adorn the marble columns and hang from the boughs of wisteria trees, creating a beautiful spectrum of light that shines against the velveteen night sky. Circus tents are scattered throughout the open space, adorned with flags of every color imaginable.
Music and laughter fill the air as the people of the court flock to each tent, eager to explore the mysteries inside, their eyes sparkling in anticipation of the wonders that await them.
Servers weave through the crowd, carrying platters of sweet cakes with spun-sugar decorations and trays filled with steaming goblets.
In the courtyard’s center, a tall structure stands, its frame draped with cascading silks.
Along these vibrant lengths, performers clad in minimal attire move with mesmerizing precision, their bodies twisting and bending in an elegant aerial dance.
The fabric wraps and unwinds around their lithe forms, creating a captivating display of strength and fluidity.
The Thíasos tou Theíou.
The most renowned performance troupe across all the kingdoms of the Empyrieos—and it’s no wonder why. The sight before me is spellbinding. Magnificent, just like their namesake—Troupe of the Divine—suggests.
Rumors circulated among the courtiers about their attendance throughout the Royal Trials earlier in the day, and I’m thrilled to see those whispers were true.
“Dear gods,” Nyssa breathes beside me as one of the aerial dancers—a willowy nymphai with long, silvery hair and delicate features—tumbles gracefully through the air, her fall arrested at the last moment by the silk ribbons just above the swirling courtiers below.
“When I die, I want my soul to come back as a piece of silk.”
“I don’t think that’s how reincarnation would work,” I murmur, biting back a smile.
Some tycheroi cling to the belief that they’ll get another chance—that if enough magic lingers in their soul at death, they’ll be reborn.
Others claim we return to the Anemoi, wherever they may have gone, while the nymphai insist they dissolve back into the elements.
I’m not sure I believe in any of it, but if the stories hold any truth, I highly doubt silk is an option.
“It’s important to have dreams in life, Aella.”
I glance at Myna, standing on Nyssa’s other side, my eyebrows no doubt disappearing into my hairline. It’s just the three of us in attendance tonight; the rest of our Flight was sent to the servants’ quarters after we settled into our rooms, already hard at work searching for the weapon.
“You grew up with her and Lark?” Myna asks, curiosity threading through her tone.
“Not exactly,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “But I’ve known them long enough.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, solemn and sincere.
“I’ll have you know,” Nyssa interjects, her voice rising in mock offense, “we’re excellent company.”
“Excellent,” I repeat, struggling to suppress the grin threatening to break across my face.
Myna’s answering smile falters, flickering like a candle on the verge of going out, as her eyes shift past me.
Her expression tightens, becoming careful and restrained, before she dips into a subtle curtsy.
Nyssa mirrors her movements with the same precision.
Sensing the shift, I compose myself, mask my curiosity with a polite smile, and turn to face the approaching figure.
“Lady Titaia,” I say, my smile blooming into one much more genuine.
“Oh, please, Princess,” she replies with a mischievous smile. “I’m as much a lady as I am a milkmaid. Titaia is fine.”
“Only if you return the favor.”
“We’ll see.” Her eyes shimmer as she turns toward the others. “And who do we have here?”
“My handmaidens, Sarra and Lyna,” I say, gesturing to Nyssa and Myna as I introduce them with the names they’ve chosen for our ruse.
The process was already convoluted—receiving our Aviary names only to adopt another set.
Yet, having handmaidens named after birds would have drawn far more attention than we desire.
Titaia greets them with a smile before she loops my arm through hers and walks me into the fray, Nyssa and Myna trailing behind at a respectful distance. “I was hoping I would find you,” she says. “How are you settling into the palace?”
I force a smile, keeping my tone light. “It’s been a bit of an adjustment, but I’m managing. The palace is…impressive.” My eyes flit to hers, carefully watching for any sign of her true intentions. “It’s kind of you to ask.”
She dismisses my gratitude with a wave and turns her attention to the crowd. “Let me point out the competition.”
“Competition?”
“Perhaps that’s a generous term.” Titaia lets out a snort of laughter—entirely unladylike yet oddly endearing—that unexpectedly softens my feelings toward her as she signals for a server.
The young man hurries over, his cheeks turning ruddy as we both take a goblet from the tray he carries.
I don’t miss the fine lines marking his otherwise youthful face or the silvering hair at his temples, but I hold my tongue, focusing instead on the fact that the engraved silver chalice is warm in my hand, heated by the liquid inside, steam curling off its deep-red surface.
I frown as I raise it and breathe in the scent. Spice, citrus, and—most importantly—nothing sinister lurking underneath. I silently thank the Aviary lessons for teaching me the art of poison detection, no matter how excruciating the experience was. “What’s this?”
“Mulled wine,” Titaia says, taking a deep drink of her own. “It’s perfect for cooler nights, stronger than calda. Try it.”
I take a tentative sip. The moment the warm flavors of orange, cinnamon, and honey, blended with full-bodied wine, hit my tongue, I can’t contain a small moan of appreciation.
“It’s good, yes?”
“Delicious,” I say, taking a deeper drink, the warmth heating me from within.
“Good. Now, on to more important matters—not that wine isn’t important. Do you see that lady over there? The one in the red gown?”
I follow the direction of Titaia’s gaze and find the lady in question. The flowing red gown drapes over the curves of her body, leaving the golden skin of her arms and back bare. Her hair falls in silky mahogany curls to her waist as she tilts her head back and gives a bell-like laugh.
“That’s Lady Lydia,” Titaia goes on. “She was born and raised in this court, and her parents groomed her to be the future princess. She’s a nasty piece of work and one to watch out for.
The brunette on her right is Lady Helen of Pyrene—the capital of Reveza—who rejected multiple suitors from here in Eretria to pursue her place in the trials.
On the other side, with black hair, is Lady Zina of Corinth; her family has one of the largest trade networks in the Empyrieos. ”
I take in the last two ladies. Lady Helen’s tanned shoulders are drawn back with a rigid poise, a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her assessing gaze.
Lady Zina, by contrast, carries a tension she can’t quite conceal.
Her light brown skin shimmers beneath the lanterns, but her fingers twitch at her sides.
They both wear pleated gowns in shades of gold; a fact that obviously displeases them, by the way they keep scowling at each other.
“And they’re all competing in the trials?” I ask.
“Yes, much to their dismay. The three of them have been friends since they were young,” Titaia says, smirking like she finds their predicament amusing. “They’ll stick together until they find themselves up against one another.”
“Are there any others?”
“Lady Dehlia from Lienz, a small town south of here that her family governs.” Titaia tilts her chin toward another brunette woman, this one with olive skin that glows against the soft white of her gown, a quiet kind of beauty that stands out without trying.
Titaia’s gaze drifts past her a moment later.
“And the last is Lady Cynna from Arkhadia.”
I blink in shock at the last lady. Her hair is like my own, ashen and wavy, though maybe a shade lighter. Eyes of icy blue—matching perfectly with the gown that drapes over her lithe form—flick toward me, narrowing at my scrutiny before they slide to Titaia and stay there.
There’s a flicker of something strange in my chest. A sensation of silk sliding beneath my skin before it tightens.
Recognition, perhaps. Or a warning. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised at the likeness between us.
My mother was from Arkhadia, after all. However, the similarities end there.
Her skin is the palest I’ve ever seen, as if she’s never seen a day of sunlight in her life.
Pulling my gaze away from Lady Cynna, I take in the others.
Five competitors. Six, if I include myself.
My eyes roam over each of them, noting the graceful way they hold themselves, the fluttering of their eyelashes, the tinkling sounds of their laughter filling the air.
I’m helpless to the way my stomach twists as I compare myself to them.
These women have been groomed for this kind of grace, their movements flowing like water, their polished exteriors gleaming with an effortlessness I can’t hope to match.
My own body, hardened and shaped by years of relentless training, feels wholly out of place among their delicate beauty.
My shoulders are too defined, my stance too firm—unyielding where theirs are soft.
I twist the ring on my finger and glance down at my hands, palms roughened with calluses from wielding weapons rather than musical instruments.