Chapter 10 #2
Titaia heaves a sigh beside me, and I follow her gaze to the dais, where the royal family watch her expectantly. She pulls my arm from hers. “Duty calls,” she says with a wry smile. “Enjoy the festivities, Aella. I’ll see if I can find you after.”
“Thank you, Titaia.”
She bows her head and throws a smile at Nyssa and Myna, who have been silent shadows throughout our conversation.
I watch as she sashays her way through the crowd, gingerly taking a seat at her cousin’s side on the royal dais, where the royal family have been seated while presiding over the festivities.
I note the way she sits as far away from him as she can manage without falling off her chair entirely.
The back of my neck prickles with awareness, and my eyes flick toward Keres, finding his gaze locked on me.
He’s once again sprawled in his seat, his finger dancing lazily across the cup rim.
My shoulders start to rise at the intensity of his stare, but I force aside the instinct to adopt a defensive stature.
Instead, I bite my lip and drop my gaze, a private smile curling the corner of my mouth.
When I glance up again, it’s to five additional sets of eyes watching me with equal measures of curiosity and venom.
Fortunately, the scrutiny doesn’t last long. A tall man steps onto the stage, his dark hair tied back from his smooth face and his body draped in regal attire. He raises his hands to the guests, the single motion enough to silence the courtyard and draw the attention of the gathered tycheroi.
“Welcome!” the man’s voice reverberates in the now-silent night, a broad smile on his face.
“For those of you who are not residents of the court, I am Cyril, the Master of Ceremonies.
Tonight, we mark the official opening of the Eretrian Royal Trials, a tradition that has been an important part of the Selmonious reign since the beginning of the end of the God War.
“These trials will see highborn ladies from all over the Empyrieos compete in a series of three tasks to determine the best candidate for our prince’s bride and your future queen.
In keeping with tradition, the only trial we can tell you of in advance is the third.
This will be an opportunity for the candidates to truly shine by displaying a talent before the court, something they think will please our prince.
The first trial will take place tomorrow morning,” Cyril announces, his eyes lingering on me for a fraction longer than necessary.
“Until that glorious moment arrives, revel in all the splendor our court has to offer!”
I jolt at the sound of cannons that accompany the final flourish of the Master of Ceremonies’ hands.
My jaw drops at the flares of colored light that spark and dance across the night sky.
Crimson, amber, gold—they all swirl together, painting the sky with autumnal hues.
Each burst illuminates in a brief moment of beauty before fading away into darkness, and when the final burst showers down upon us, the sparks of light solidify and scatter across the marble floor as tiny gemstones.
I kneel and pick up a ruby-red stone, rolling it between my fingers and watching as it crumbles to dust, leaving nothing but a powdery residue behind.
I stand as music strikes up from somewhere and a crowd of lords and ladies descend. Throughout the countless conversations, I continue casting glances in the prince’s direction, forcing flirtatious smiles. And once again, Calliope’s spectral voice drifts through my mind.
Always wait for him to come to you. Temptation is a trap. Lay it well.
When the tycheroi of the court grow bored with the foreign princess and ladies in their midst, Nyssa, Myna, and I finally steal a quiet moment for ourselves under a decorative bough laden with glowing lanterns.
“I don’t suppose you’ve been harboring any secret talents over the past seven years, have you?” Nyssa asks as we wander through the tents and dodge performers and courtiers alike.
“I think I might have something.” I’ll need to see if I can discover what the other contestants have planned, but after years of training under royal tutors and Calliope, dancing will be my best option.
“I’m not sure the royal family will appreciate how accurately you can throw a dagger.”
“I don’t know,” Myna muses. “I think that’s something Prince Keres may find intriguing.”
Nyssa laughs, but Myna’s words are distant in my mind as I catch sight of three of the competitors Titaia pointed out earlier moving in our direction—Lydia, Zina, and Helen, if I recall correctly.
They present the illusion of camaraderie, but I’d wager they wouldn’t hesitate to turn on one another if it served their purposes.
The sharp curiosity and calculation I noticed in their eyes earlier is not something I’m eager to face so soon. I seize Nyssa and Myna by the arms and steer them into the nearest tent. The canvas flaps fall shut behind us, muffling the chaotic melodies of the celebration outside.
My eyes take a moment to adjust, drawn first to the brazier at the center. Its golden flame burns steadily, casting a warm circle of light on a small wooden stage. Beyond that circle, everything fades into shadow, soft and uncertain.
Rugs and cushions lie scattered across the floor in almost haphazard luxury, each one in rich hues that glimmer when the firelight catches them.
Courtiers, I believe, though their relaxed manner is anything but formal, sprawl among the rugs and cushions.
Some lean back on their elbows, swirling dark liquids in clay cups.
Others lie careless and languid, heads tipped back in hushed laughter.
Their murmured conversations drift through the dim tent like music too soft to discern.
Movement on the stage draws my focus, and I watch as a figure emerges from the shadows clinging to its edges, stepping into the brazier’s glow. I freeze, and my gaze fixes on him.
The man on the stage moves like the shadows belong to him.
His long black suit clings to his lean, powerful frame with a precision that looks crafted, not accidental.
Dark hair spills down his back like a ribbon of black silk, its edges shimmering in the firelight.
The flickering flame dances along his face, illuminating his deep-brown skin with a bronze glow.
He pauses just at the edge of the spotlight, and I catch myself holding my breath.
His presence is magnetic, but there’s something deeper, something ancient.
Nymph blood.
There’s an elegance to the way he moves, a weightless precision in his step that is too striking to be coincidence.
But what type? I can’t tell. He lacks the visible markers—the telling colorations or features.
Yet the way the atmosphere in this tent bends around him…
There’s no mistaking it. He is something more. Something rare.
“Friends,” his voice cuts above the others. It’s low and smooth, yet not loud—conversational, as if he’s speaking to each of us alone. Somehow, though, it fills the tent, reaching into every shadowed corner and brushing over the murmured conversations like velvet. “Welcome.”
The courtiers go silent at once, their eyes—glimmering even in the dimness—fixed on the stage.
He steps forward and continues as if the moment demands it of him.
“To wanderers, seekers, and those with nowhere else to go—you are welcome here. Ours is a place of truths wrapped in riddles, of lies told so sweetly they carve your dreams into shapes more beautiful than reality. For your history, your heart, and your mind”—a smooth pause, his gaze flickering across the room, stopping…
just for a moment…where we stand veiled in shadow—“will all become stories tonight.”
He paces, hands left loose at his sides, yet there’s a deliberate precision to his movements, a coiled grace that makes it impossible to look away.
My skin prickles, though I force myself still. Nyssa shifts beside me—I place a gentle hand on her shoulder, signaling for her to stay quiet.
“Some of you have come to listen. Others, I suspect, have come to witness. And a few…” His smile curves, the brazier’s glow catching the faint impression of sharpness in his gaze. “…have come to see themselves reflected in the mirror we hold.”
There’s a pause, heavy and deliberate. Something about his words makes my chest tighten in the strange twilight of his voice.
He finally extends his hands over the brazier in front of him, and the smoke that was drifting toward a hole in the tent’s ceiling begins to curl and coil around his spread fingers.
It glimmers for a moment, then, with a surreal certainty, weaves itself into forms. The shapes start as gliding, amorphous clouds before sharpening into distinct figures—winged men locked within a dark, windowless room.
They move, almost alive, as if replaying something that truly happened.
For the barest of moments, I believe he’s a fire nymphai, but my eyes narrow on his hands. Although the act of holding them over the smoke almost fooled me, I notice shadow pooling around his open palms and sliding effortlessly from his fingertips like a second skin.
My earlier suspicions were right. The man has nymph blood in his veins—shadow nymph blood. Which should be impossible, since everyone believes they died out during the God War.
I bite my tongue, holding back the questions forcing their way up my throat, and watch in awe as the man’s magnetic voice tells a tale.
The histories say the Anemoi came from a land far away. They were lesser gods among their kind, held captive by another who sought to use them for their powers. They were kept in an enchanted tower with no windows so they could not fly away. Until one day, their captor left the tower door unlocked.