Chapter 18 #2
Once the healers finally release me from their care, I hurry back to my chambers with renewed determination. A week confined to bed rest has left me feeling isolated from our mission, and I cannot afford to jeopardize my standing in the court.
Fortunately, Prince Keres is holding a banquet tonight, and the event will provide the perfect opportunity for me to make my return.
“Ready?” Nyssa asks, leaning against my bedroom door. She looks flawless, with a pale blue gown draped over her curves and her dark cinnamon curls pinned into the style they favor in Eretria, half up and half down.
Myna hovers behind her, similarly dressed in hues of terra-cotta.
She skillfully evaded my questions about why she was joining us tonight, maneuvering with the grace and finesse of a seasoned courtier.
That does little to quell the persistent suspicion that Raven is intent on ensuring I have additional support.
Instead of irritating me, it fills my chest with a comforting warmth.
“Yes,” I say, nodding firmly. “I’m ready.”
We step out of our chambers and move toward the dining hall, weaving through endless courtyards, elegant parlors, and galleries lined with statues. As the grand entrance comes into view, I take a steadying breath and compose myself, fixing a calm, practiced smile in place.
We step into the lively hall, Nyssa and Myna trailing behind me like silent, reassuring shadows.
The enormity of the chamber is a crushing weight, vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, vast tapestries depicting the storied history of the Empyrieos dancing in the flicker of candlelight.
Spectral scents of roasted delicacies intermingle with the heavy perfume of nobility.
Heads adorned with glittering jewels and eyes full of curiosity turn toward us. The rabble of conversation cascades into silence, broken only by the scrape of chairs against polished stone as some of the gathered tycheroi push away from the long table or rise from their seats for a better view.
My skin crawls with the sensation of their eyes on me.
Probing, judging, seeking the vulnerabilities beneath my smiling mask.
We come to a stop before the dais at the end of the hall, where the prince sits alone.
I lower my head in a bow of feigned respect, but mostly to hide my frown at the absence of the king and queen.
If our time here has shown us anything, it’s that King Daedalus is not quite the threat the Eagle believes him to be.
Beyond welcoming us upon our arrival and appearing at festivities and trials, he has remained absent.
That doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t a threat at all, but it feels like power is shifting in this palace.
Some courtiers speculate he is preparing the prince for his future role as king, relinquishing more authority as the trials unfold.
From what I learned of Eretria at the Aviary, these Royal Trials serve as a precursor to a new king’s ascension.
However, some remark on how young Keres is for that to be true, hinting that there may be something foul at play.
“Princess Aella.” Keres projects his voice so that all in the hall can hear. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes, Prince Keres,” I say, rising from my position. “Your healers worked wonders over the past week, and if it’s possible, I think I feel better than ever.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Please, sit, and celebrate with us.
” He gestures, and my gaze follows the motion to an empty seat at one of the long tables, where the other contestants sit.
With another bow of my head, I join them, settling in beside Cynna as my two silent shadows join the line of servants stationed behind their lords and ladies.
The gentle clink of cups and the soft hum of conversation fill the room, yet the tension at our end of my table crackles with energy. I reach for a vessel of wine and pour a cup before idly swirling it, keeping my expression calm despite the weight of Lydia’s gaze fixed on me from across the table.
“Such an impressive recovery, Princess,” Lydia says sweetly, her lips curling into a delicate smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “Nightshade, wasn’t it? A lesser competitor might have been permanently…incapacitated.”
“It was.” I meet her gaze, a practiced smile tugging at my lips. “Do you have much experience with it? It certainly sounds as though you do.”
Helen tenses beside Lydia, the flicker of discomfort in her eyes clear as she reaches for her cup with trembling fingers, spilling a few drops of wine onto the table. Zina’s sharp laugh cuts through the tension like a knife.
“Careful, Helen,” Zina says, leaning back with an air of languid arrogance. “Wouldn’t want to spill any more of that precious vintage—you’ve wasted enough already.”
Helen’s grip falters, and the cup clatters onto the table, drawing scattered chuckles from the surrounding nobles. Her face burns crimson as she casts a desperate glance at Lydia.
At my side, Cynna leans in close, her shoulder brushing against mine.
The proximity sets me on edge, and I repress the urge to stiffen, half expecting some kind of premeditated move.
But all she does is whisper in my ear, her voice barely audible over the hum of the room.
“I take it Helen was the one who slipped poison in your cup?”
“Whatever gave that away?”
“It looks as though they’re throwing her to the chimera,” she murmurs, nodding subtly to where Helen sits, pale-faced and fidgeting.
A faint smile tugs at the corners of my lips despite myself. Cynna may not be an ally—not in the genuine sense of the word—but in this moment, it’s comforting to have someone by my side who hasn’t actively tried to eliminate me from the competition.
At least, not yet.
Lydia, Helen, and Zina’s barbed exchanges swirl through the air like daggers, cutting through the ambient chatter as the evening drags on. The flickering aura lights cast long shadows across the polished stone floor, and there’s an unease that settles over the gathering.
I glance up, searching for the source, and spot Prince Keres rising from his seat. The hall falls into a chilling silence.
“I am so glad you could all join us tonight to celebrate the trials and to honor our remaining competitors,” Prince Keres announces, his voice echoing through the hall, amplified by an enchantment. “It has been a thrilling journey thus far, and I know it will only grow more exhilarating.”
I shift in my seat, keeping my gaze fixed on him as he continues.
“However,” he says, his tone sharpening, “with every competition comes challenges…and betrayals. It has become clear that not everyone holds the tradition of the trials in the high regard it deserves.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words linger in the air. His piercing gaze sweeps over the competitors before finally locking on to me. My heart pounds, each beat pressing against my ribs like a warning.
“As you all know, Princess Aella nearly succumbed to poison during the second trial,” he says, his voice calm yet cutting.
A wave of gasps and murmurs ripples through the crowd at the confirmation.
He waits for the whispers to die before continuing, “But let me make one thing perfectly clear—this was not a test. This was not part of my design. This was someone else attempting to twist the odds in their own favor.”
The room stiffens with tension, breaths held in anticipation.
“Fortunately, there are still those among the competitors who possess honor, who respect the will of their prince.” Keres delivers his next words with finality, each syllable falling like a hammer. “These are my trials. I alone will decide who lives and who dies.”
A hush blankets the hall, the air thick with dread and unspoken tension, every creak and whisper amplified in the silence.
Even the flickering auras seem hesitant to disturb the moment.
Across from me, Helen’s vacant gaze is on her plate, her hands clutching the edge of the table as if it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
My eyes narrow as Lydia smirks, her lips curling ever so slightly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as if she’s savoring a private victory.
“Lady Helen of Pyrene,” Prince Keres commands, “stand.”
Helen’s head snaps up, shock and fear painted across her face. She rises from her seat, her legs trembling as she faces the prince.
“You were witnessed committing treason against two crowns,” he states, his voice cold and unyielding. “And for that, I have a fitting punishment.”
Helen’s eyes dart around the room, desperate for a glimmer of support or even the faintest trace of sympathy. But the crowd remains silent, their gazes fixed on her with a mix of morbid curiosity and cold detachment, as though watching a tragedy unfold in real time.
From the shadows, a servant moves forward. In his hands, he carries a cup, holding it at a careful distance from his body as though it contains something dangerous. He halts in front of her and offers the cup, his expression unreadable and eyes downcast.
Helen’s gaze drops to the vessel, dread twisting her features. She looks back to Keres, her voice trembling with raw desperation. “Please, my prince,” she pleads, “it wasn’t—”
“Drink,” Keres commands, his voice sharp and unyielding, slicing through her protest like a blade.
My stomach twists with the weight of realization.
A cruel, poetic punishment—nightshade.
I can’t tell if this spectacle is supposed to make me feel a sense of justice, but as Helen’s desperate pleas fill the air, all I feel is revulsion.
“Drink.”
Tears streaming down her face, Helen reaches for the cup and obeys.
A drop of dark purple liquid trails down her face, and I thank the Gods that the dose of poison is potent enough for a swift ending. But, as the seconds stretch on and Helen remains standing, it’s clear that is far from true.
Did they give her a diluted dose? Or is this yet another form of cruelty—a slow, agonizing death, sip by sip, until the poison takes hold?
I watch in growing dread as Helen’s body convulses, her eyes rolling back as she collapses to the floor. Gasps ripple through the crowd; some avert their eyes, unable to stomach the horrific scene.
Revulsion churns deep within my gut, threatening to overwhelm the mask of calm I’ve fought to maintain. Helen is not innocent, but this…this is brutal.
They didn’t give her a chance. No defense.
No mercy.
Still, it isn’t sympathy for Helen that roots me in icy stillness—it’s calculation.
Having her punished so publicly is a deliberate message, a declaration of Prince Keres’s control over this twisted game and a warning to us all.
The spectators may murmur shock and horror, but the message isn’t meant for them.
No, it’s meant for us. The competitors.
The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a jagged shudder as Helen’s convulsions are silenced by death’s final grip.
Dozens of eyes turn to Keres, their expressions a wash of shock, blank indifference, or veiled glee at his display of control.
None of it matches the burning ache in my chest, the weight pressing against my ribs, reducing my breaths to shallow gasps.
I want to slink into the shadows and bow my head, but Nyssa lingers behind me, and I can feel the heat of her presence tethering me to reality. No one else shudders at the stink of death lingering on the air. No one else feels the terror seeping in through the marble floor.
Perhaps it should’ve been more sinister—more righteous—my feelings toward Helen. After all, she poisoned me, deceived me. But as I glance at her slackened face, her trembling form now utterly still, I realize how thin the line between predator and prey truly is in this court.
Keres is not a prince. He is a monster tamed only by his own whims. And the rest of us are merely scrabbling for scraps of his approval, hoping his gaze will pass over without that twisted gleam of sadistic amusement.
I survived. She didn’t. And it’s only a matter of time before one of the predators lying in wait slices me open from within.
Am I ready for this next part of the game I’m playing?
Nyssa stirs behind me—and my resolve hardens. My survival isn’t just about me. I cannot fall, not for Keres, not for this court, not for the Aviary. Because if I fail, Nyssa falls with me. And I will burn every throne that dares stand in our way before I see that happen.
This time, I will be the predator who hunts.
With calculated ease, the prince raises his cup in a mocking toast.
And we, helpless and bound, drink.