Chapter 12 #2
I almost don’t hear her words, because—as she speaks them—I notice the collar at her neck, made from a dark gray metal that I don’t recognize. But I recognize the marks engraved on its surface.
Goiteía.
Beneath the collar, her tawny skin is chafed raw. I track a line of blood that drips between her breasts and grit my teeth. The heat of my anger burns away any urgency I felt earlier as it flares.
“What have they done to you?” The words escape my lips unplanned, a far cry from the question I intended to ask.
An unexpected, manic grin takes over her strangely beautiful face, sharp white teeth flashing in the dark.
“The prince awaits you,” Sphinx states, leaving my question unanswered. But the bitterness of her tone tells me all I need to know.
I clench my jaw, knowing that she’s right, and my time is running out. But the thought of leaving her shackled like this has my stomach turning over in protest.
The mission. I need to remember my purpose here.
Relinquishing the handle of my dagger, I force my feet to move toward the door. Her sharp gaze burns a hole between my shoulder blades, and as my fingers grip the door handle, Sphinx speaks again. Hundreds of voices whispering and screaming and singing.
“We’ll meet again soon, Daughter of the Tempest.”
The door seals behind me, cutting off any chance to dwell on her words. The roar of applause erupts, drowning out my thoughts and sweeping them away.
Relief surges through me, warm and undeniable, and despite the storm of emotions churning inside, a triumphant smile spreads across my face.
I did it.
I passed the first trial.
Titaia has pulled me away from the suffocating circle of courtiers, their sycophantic laughter and endless chatter echoing in the background, and we manage to find a quiet corner in the trial’s receiving hall.
It isn’t much, just a shadowed alcove tucked away in the shadow of a marble statue carved in the likeness of Eurus, but it feels like a small refuge from the overwhelming chaos.
The air here is cooler, less stifling, and the low hum of distant conversations fades into a manageable murmur.
Nyssa and Myna had initially joined us, and while their presence brought some comfort, I made a point of sending them away.
Their time was better spent elsewhere than merely observing the trials as they unfold.
Lady Cynna was the first to follow me, emerging from Sphinx’s chamber in less than half the time I had taken.
She stepped into the hall with an almost unnerving ease, her composure so flawless it was as though she’d faced no challenge at all.
Not a single hair was out of place, not a bead of sweat marred her flawless complexion; she looked every bit the unshakable contender.
Lydia came next, her stride purposeful and confident.
She didn’t linger, heading straight for her retinue of admirers with a faint smile—whether from relief or satisfaction, I couldn’t tell. Zina and Helen followed.
Prince Keres had offered his congratulations to everyone, as he had to me.
Their postures radiated pride, a clear testament to their success.
Yet, beneath the surface, there was something more—a tension in their forced smiles, a fleeting change in their expressions when they believed no one was watching.
I wonder if Sphinx gave any of them the same uncanny feeling—the sensation of being known, deeply and incomprehensibly.
The thought is unsettling, a murmur at the edges of consciousness, like the whisper of a forgotten dream.
If they carry the weight of that moment, it doesn’t show easily—yet something in their eyes, in the tension lining their movements, makes me doubt they have emerged untouched.
I’m sure my expression holds a trace of that same apprehension. If failing this trial would have cost us our lives at the hands of Sphinx, then can we expect the stakes to be any different for the trials yet to come?
Dehlia is the final contestant left to undertake Sphinx’s riddle, and as the seconds stretch on without her emerging from the hall, I twist the ring on my finger, anticipation tingling up my spine.
Titaia leans closer, her keen gaze locked on the other contestants circling Prince Keres like a flock of vultures. “They’re doing reasonably well at making this appear so effortless, aren’t they?”
I nod absentmindedly, shifting my focus away from the door to the trial chamber as a delicate, almost imperceptible prickle of awareness tingles at the nape of my neck.
Feigning an air of indifference, I allow my gaze to wander, sweeping over the crowd, my pulse thrumming as I search for the source of the unease.
But among the sea of indifferent faces, I find no trace of accusation or intent.
Until my eyes meet the prince’s deep sepia stare.
For a moment, the world around me blurs, the murmurs of the crowd fading into a distant hum.
His gaze holds mine, unwavering, almost hypnotic, and I can’t tell if it’s curiosity or something darker that flickers in it.
Uneasy tension coils in my chest, spreading through my limbs as if his stare alone has tethered me in place.
My breath falters, suspended between the urge to turn away and the resolve to hold my ground.
“Would a belated word of advice be welcome, Aella?” Titaia says, her voice scarcely penetrating my mind.
“Coming from you? Absolutely.”
“The bloom of belladonna may smell sweet. A siren may entrance you. But they’re both deadly all the same.”
Her words finally break the trance, and I turn to her as she does the same. “Feel free to speak plainly with me.”
“Don’t take Keres at face value. Objectively, it’s a pretty face, but beauty runs only skin-deep.”
“That wasn’t any less cryptic, Titaia,” I deadpan.
“Well, I can’t say it too plainly. I’d disappear in the middle of the night, and then you’d be bored without me.”
We fall silent, the weight of her words lingering between us.
I watch her closely, wondering if I judged her too soon.
Could Titaia be an ally? A friend, even?
Since the moment I met her, she’s read me with a clarity that’s unsettling, her openness and almost cavalier demeanor cutting through my defenses.
I don’t drop my guard lightly. Lessons from my past have taught me how foolish that is.
But with Titaia, I sense something genuine—a sincerity no one else here would even attempt.
And yet, I can’t tell if it’s real. Is she hiding behind the same mask everyone wears in this place—beautiful lies covering ugly truths? I strain to see a crack, to glimpse what’s underneath, but I find nothing.
A pang of regret hits me. Maybe Titaia is genuine. Maybe, in this twisted world, I’ve found someone worth trusting. Someone who would warn me away from harm rather than thrusting me toward it. But if that’s true, the shame lies with me. Because this time, I’m the one who’s wearing a mask.
“Thank you,” I say, putting everything I can’t voice into those two simple words. “Rest assured, what you have told me will not be repeated.”
With a parting smile, I excuse myself from Titaia’s side—much to her dismay—and weave through the crowd, toward where the other contestants are clamoring around Keres.
All except for Cynna. With a frown, I search for her amid the faces, only to find her stepping into the space I just left at Titaia’s side.
How…curious.
I store that observation away to consider more closely later when Keres’s voice cuts above the din. “Princess Aella, I’ve been wondering if my cousin’s company is more”—he pauses before going on—“preferable to you than my own.”
“Not at all, Prince,” I lie easily. “We were simply plotting the best way for me to win these trials so that I might exclusively enjoy your company.”
Zina and Helen both scoff, but it’s Lydia who speaks up, her glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Win the trials? My, you’re ambitious. Though I suppose it’s easy to dream big when you’re unbothered by reality.”
I tilt my head as I look at her, letting the barb slide off me. “Oh, I prefer to think of it as confidence. But I understand why you would find it unfamiliar.”
Her lips curve into a saccharine smile, but her eyes flash with venom. “Confidence is a fine line away from arrogance. You’ll want to be careful, Princess Aella. This isn’t the kind of competition where charm alone sees you through.”
“And yet,” I reply smoothly, glancing pointedly at Keres, “it seems to be working so far.”
Lydia’s jaw tightens, and I catch the flicker of irritation before she masks it. But the Prince’s gaze grows heated as it moves, and he runs his thumb along his lower lip, enjoying the show we’re putting on.
I’m grateful when a serving girl walks past bearing a tray of wine cups and his attention leaves me, freeing me from its intensity as he takes two from the tray. I refrain from narrowing my eyes as the girl flinches, plastering a smile on my face when he turns back and offers a cup to me.
“You’ll need a drink to celebrate,” Keres says, flashing us all a sharp grin.
“Oh, celebration feels a bit premature, doesn’t it, Lydia?” I say, lifting my cup in mock toast. “After all, we wouldn’t want to count victories before they’re earned.”
Lydia’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t worry, Princess. Some of us already know what victory tastes like.” She raises her own cup, her gaze fixed on me, and takes a deliberate sip.
I open my mouth to respond, but a bloodcurdling scream slices through the air.
The breath stalls in my lungs as I whip around to face the trial hall door.
It shudders under the force of frantic pounding from the other side, each impact echoing through the cavernous room.
Dust shakes loose from the edges of the heavy wooden frame, and the sharp, desperate rhythm of the knocks sends a chill down my spine.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stops.
Dehlia failed the trial—and paid with her life.
The gathered tycheroi around me have gone eerily still.
For a moment, I think they’re all as horrified as I am.
Stunned into silence by the death of a young lady whose only crime was aspiring for more.
Until I look closer—closer at their faces, at their eyes, and realize the stillness is not horror.
It’s something else entirely, something far more unnerving.
The frozen moment shatters as time flows once more through the hall. They turn to one another, their voices laced with false sympathies and insincere prayers. A chilling performance of feigned concern.
But I don’t miss the flashes of disappointment on some of their faces—the malicious glee on others’.
And I especially don’t miss the glimpses of gold changing hands.