Chapter 22
The evening before the third trial, a summons arrives, inviting me to a private dinner with Keres and the remaining contestants—a gathering I can hardly imagine wanting to attend less.
I run a finger along the smooth curve of the laurel-branch belt at my waist, my reflection staring back at me as Nyssa fusses over my hair.
A stranger. That’s what I see—a woman draped in steely blue silk and gold, someone who looks the part of a courtly player in this deadly game. But beneath the thin layer of composure that I force into place, a storm churns.
It hasn’t stopped—not since last night.
Not since him.
My thoughts slip to Raven, unbidden but insistent, like shadows creeping across marble.
The memory of his touch ignites my skin, as impossible to ignore as the ache deep in my chest. We broke something between us that has stood steadfast against everything—the trials, danger, even death itself. And yet, it didn’t shatter into ruin.
No, it opened, shifted, evolving into something stronger, fiercer, and far more perilous.
I can’t forget the raw vulnerability in his eyes as he reached for me, the way his walls had crumbled just enough to show the man beneath the assassin’s mask. That moment, when everything seemed to pause, tethered us together in ways I hadn’t prepared for.
Did it make me a fool? Did sitting here now, dressing myself in armor made of silk and finery while my heart unfurled for someone I could never keep, make me weaker—or stronger?
“All done,” Nyssa announces, breaking my trance.
I throw her a grateful smile in the mirror’s reflection, and she grins back.
She had taken one look at me this morning and known what had happened.
But she knows how raw the subject is, and instead of pressing me for details, she helped me apply cosmetics to cover up the evidence.
“Let’s get this over with, then,” I murmur, before I stand and step past her, every thought of Raven locked away behind a mask I can’t afford to crack.
We leave our chambers and stalk through the palace, passing by endless walls of white marble.
With each step, I add more pieces of my armor: my shoulders pushing back, a sway taking over my hips, an eager smile blooming on my face.
When we finally step into the dining hall, I’m sure I look like an entirely different person.
The room is much smaller than the formal dining hall, a space for the royal family’s more intimate dinners.
A large fireplace takes the chill from the air, and auras flicker in sconces along the walls, casting shadows across the marble floor.
The other contestants are already seated at a large oak table in the center, but with Keres still absent, the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Despite the fire warming the space, a chill courses through me as I glance at the other women, and the weight of my close encounters with death settles.
I evaded Sphinx’s claws by a hairsbreadth, avoided plummeting to my doom in the labyrinth thanks to quick reflexes honed at the Aviary, and even survived the ordeal of being poisoned.
Each moment feels like a brush with fate, a reminder of how fragile the line between life and death can be.
Had the threads of my destiny been woven differently, it might not be me joining the contestants’ dinner tonight.
Cynna lounges to the right of Keres’s empty throne, a sly smirk playing on her lips as she watches Lydia and Zina seated across the table. I slip into the empty chair beside the northern lady, while Nyssa takes her place a few steps behind me.
The matching scowls etched into Lydia’s and Zina’s faces almost make me laugh, but I stifle it. The unease coiling in my stomach would drain any warmth from the laugh, leaving it sharp and hollow.
“How is everyone feeling about the final trial?” I ask, breaking the heavy silence. I also want to gauge whether any of them share my suspicions—whether they sense something off about the simplicity of tomorrow’s trial, especially when compared to the complexity of the previous two.
Lydia’s sharp glare snaps to me, her eyes narrowing even further—something I didn’t think was possible. “And why would we tell you?”
Cynna, seated beside me, scoffs in exasperation. “Don’t be so paranoid, Lydia. She’s just asking a question. It’s not like she’s plotting some grand revenge against you.”
Lydia’s lips curl into a sneer. “She has nothing to take revenge for.”
“Oh, really?” Cynna tilts her head, her tone laced with mockery. “Has Helen’s unfortunate demise slipped your mind so quickly?”
“If Helen couldn’t win the trials without resorting to foul play, that’s her problem, not mine,” Lydia snaps, her words venomous.
I blink slowly, taken aback by how easily she dismisses the death of someone who’d been her friend since childhood. I can’t imagine treating Nyssa with such cold indifference. Then again, I wouldn’t have coaxed Nyssa into poisoning someone and left her to take the fall either.
“Weren’t you two close?” Cynna asks dryly, clearly echoing my thoughts.
“There are no friendships in the pursuit of a crown,” Lydia replies flatly, her voice devoid of any emotion. “I don’t even know why Helen bothered entering the trials. It was a complete waste of her time. Everyone knows Prince Keres and I are meant to be together.”
Her words send a ripple of tension through the room. My shoulders stiffen, and I’m not alone in my reaction. Beside Lydia, Zina swallows hard, her throat bobbing as her narrowed eyes flick to her so-called friend.
I lean forward, propping my chin on my hand, and fix Zina with an innocent expression. “Do you know that, Zina?”
She blinks, frowning at me. “Do I know what?”
“That you’re wasting your time,” I say, widening my eyes as if in genuine sympathy.
Beside me, Cynna lets out a strangled sound, disguising what I’m sure is laughter with an ill-timed cough.
I offer Zina a sweet smile, even as her face darkens with fury.
“I’m not the one wasting my time, Princess,” she spits, her voice a low hiss. “Everyone knows it’ll come down to a choice between me and Lydia. And it’s just as likely to be me as it is her.”
Lydia’s gaze whips around, glaring daggers at the side of Zina’s head. She opens her mouth and promptly closes it, both ladies shooting to their feet as Keres enters the room.
Cynna leans in as we both stand. Her eyes sparkle with amusement, devoid of the usual icy edge as she whispers conspiratorially. “I couldn’t tell who would be stabbed first—you, Zina, or me.”
“We’ll have to place bets for next time.”
“A gold drachma says it’s you.”
“That’s exactly what my handmaiden thinks,” I say with mock hurt, holding a hand over my heart, and Cynna snickers. I glance over my shoulder at Nyssa. She’s gazing up at the ceiling, her lips pressed into a thin line as her body trembles with repressed laughter.
“Ladies,” Keres says, settling into his throne at the head of the table. “I’m honored to find myself in such beautiful company once again.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes when the others drop into elegant curtsies. As I sit back down in my seat, Keres’s gaze lingers on me, and I only release my breath when Lydia draws his attention away.
“Are you looking forward to seeing my talent tomorrow, my prince?” The innuendo in her voice is so thick, I have the urge to avert my eyes.
Keres leans back in his throne, his thumb running across his lower lip while he stares back at her. “I am, Lady Lydia. In fact, I’m looking forward to seeing what all of you have to show me.” His red eyes heat as they devour each of us like we’re his own personal buffet.
As if on cue, servants flood the room, carrying large dishes of food and jugs of wine. My mouth waters as the aroma of spiced meats drifts over me, and I press a firm hand against my stomach to tame the growl it threatens to let loose.
I needn’t have bothered.
My appetite curdles as a young serving girl leans past me to fill my goblet with wine.
A graying lock of her hair falls forward, bled of the rich brown shade among the rest of her curls.
She can’t be more than sixteen years of age, and already her magic has been so abused that she’s being sapped of life.
Either that, or she’s a victim of Keres’s decaying touch.
Bile climbs up my throat when she places my cup before me and her hand trembles, drawing my eyes toward the papery skin crawling up her fingers.
My gaze sweeps around the room, and I can feel the blood draining from my face at the clear signs of magic abuse among the servants: graying hair, dull eyes, aging skin that clashes with their otherwise youthful appearances.
I force myself to stay calm, but my gaze drifts back to the girl pouring wine.
Her hands are trembling so violently that the cup slips from her grip, crashing to the floor as wine splashes in every direction.
Keres stares at her, eyes darkening with fury, and the girl quakes even more under his glare.
No one moves to help her—none of the other servants dare risk provoking his anger.
None, except one.
Nyssa steps forward, quick and resolute, kneeling to assist the girl. But before she can act, Keres’s hand shoots out, his fingers closing around her wrist in a brutal grip. Her sharp gasp cuts through the tense silence, and the serving girl scrambles away, as though worried she’ll be next.
My heart trips, then roars forward, drowning out every sound except the soft creak of Keres’s grip tightening around Nyssa’s wrist. Her dark skin pales beneath his fingers, veins pulsing with an almost translucent fragility.
Everything else—the clamor of the room, the gasps, the spilled wine—fades into nothing. My focus narrows, razor-sharp, to that single point of contact: the prince’s venomous hand wrapped around Nyssa’s wrist.
There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt the shadow of a predator stirring within me—a part of myself capable of unspeakable acts hidden beneath the surface. It’s a dark, unsettling presence, one that I rarely acknowledge but cannot entirely ignore.
This is one of those moments.
“Prince Keres.” My voice carries an edge I barely recognize, even to myself. I sense the other contestants shifting at my tone, but I don’t waver. My gaze remains fixed, unfaltering. “I strongly suggest you release my handmaiden.”
For a moment, the tension in the room sharpens until it feels like the air itself could snap. But then, with maddening nonchalance, he releases Nyssa’s arm, his fingers unfurling as though her very presence bores him.
Nyssa stumbles back toward me, moving out of my line of sight. I don’t look at her yet—I can’t. My focus is entirely on him.
When I finally raise my eyes, our gazes collide.
It’s like staring into a mirror made of storm clouds and shadow, dark and unyielding.
There’s something familiar in the way his eyes narrow, weighing me, assessing me, as though he’s uncovered a secret I’ve worked hard to bury.
It’s not fear I see in him—it’s curiosity.
A predator meeting another, each quietly acknowledging what they see in the other.
It raises the hair on the back of my neck but roots me to the spot.
Keres tilts his head, his fingers trailing through the wine spilled across the table, its deep red catching the light like fresh blood.
He doesn’t speak at first, letting the thick silence coat the air like tar.
Then, a smirk, soft but deadly, curls his lips once more.
“You’re beginning to intrigue me, Princess. ”
I don’t flinch, keeping my expression steady even as his low tone threads through my nerves like a bowstring pulled taut. “I’ve been told I’m quite predictable,” I reply, feigning a lightness I don’t feel. “I think I find that preferable.”
“Predictable bores me,” he says, his smirk twisting into a razor-sharp smile. “And in this world, boredom can be the sharpest weapon of all.” His gaze flicks once to Nyssa, then back to me. The implications in his tone hit harder than slashes.
With deliberate effort, I flash him a conspiratorial smile, as if this is nothing more than a clever game of cat and mouse. For Nyssa, I would risk everything—my reputation, my safety, even my life. And I am determined to beat him at his own game.
The dinner that follows is a careful dance of words and glances, every exchange shrouded in layers of hidden intent.
The food, though exquisite, is secondary to the tension that lingers over the table.
Keres dominates the conversation, his words polished and his laughter strategically placed, while the rest of us tread with caution, aware that one misstep could upend the fragile dynamic.
Nyssa remains silent behind me, and I don’t risk glancing at her lest I paint a bigger target on her back.
Each clink of a glass or scrape of a fork feels amplified, the sharp sounds grating against my nerves.
I grip my polite facade, my smile fixed in place, even as the relentless cacophony chips away at my composure.
I endure the struggle, holding back my words and emotions until the door to our chambers closes behind me, granting the privacy to finally let them surface.
And then I let go.