Chapter 23
The soft hum of a harp drifts through the air, pristine and haunting, its melody threading a fragile spell over the grand hall.
Below, Cynna perches on a low velvet stool at the center of the stage, her slender fingers gliding over the strings with the precision of a master.
Her head is tilted just so, her usual icy expression now serene, as though she is more mythical being than mere mortal.
Even her gown glows in the golden light of the stage, casting her as an otherworldly siren luring the audience to their doom.
I lean my elbows on the cool marble of the balcony railing, the columned shadows around me offering a hidden perch from which I can observe the spectacle below.
The court, draped in their opulent finery, sit silently as Cynna performs for the trial.
From my vantage point, I can’t see their faces, but I imagine they’re shaped by awe, or perhaps even envy.
My own admiration for her skill mingles with unease.
While I can admit she’s gifted, that doesn’t make her less dangerous or her ambitions less sharp-edged.
I take a steadying breath, trying to focus, to stay attuned to the shifting dynamics in the room below.
But my thoughts keep drifting toward what lies beyond this performance, beyond the elegance and pageantry.
A simple talent show is far too trivial compared to everything we’ve endured during the trials and in this court.
I can’t shake the feeling that something far more sinister is lurking beneath the surface, waiting to reveal itself.
Perhaps watching the others perform has unsettled me.
Zina’s voice is nothing short of divine.
Lydia’s dance was at once artful and seductive.
And Cynna? She somehow captivates and unnerves in equal measure.
Four competitors remain, and this is the final trial.
So, will Keres simply choose his favorite among us?
Cynna finishes her final notes with a flourish, and the applause rises in a crashing wave. I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat.
My time has come.
Pulling away from the railing of my hideout, I descend the stairs to the floor below.
When I reach the shadows at the back of the hall, darkness shrouds the vast space; only the strings of auras hanging above the stage ahead of me provide light.
Confusion mars the faces in the crowd as they glance around.
Wondering. Waiting.
At the side of the stage, Pan raises his head; his eyes lock with mine, elegant fingers poised over the strings of the lyre cradled in his lap.
Nyssa, Titaia, and Eleni stand beside him, all wearing expressions of encouragement and pride as they gaze back at me.
I steel my spine with their faith in me and lift my chin, watching a wicked grin take over Pan’s face as he begins to play.
The first note rings with the clarity of a bell, sounding through the hall and silencing the murmurs of the crowd. As the song builds, I step in time with its melody, letting the music soak into my skin and guide me.
When I’m almost to the stage, Keres turns in his seat, his eyes piercing me like an arrow, and I can’t help but feel a sense of apprehension.
A moment of self-doubt.
I’m not afraid to admit to myself that watching the others perform and show off their chosen talents set me on edge.
I know the performance I’m about to give is a risk, but I needed something that would make me stand out.
Joining the Aviary at a young age hadn’t meant the skills I was developing under royal tutelage fell by the wayside.
I can sing and play musical instruments as well as the next court lady.
Those skills are as important as spycraft for a Songbird.
However, in a trial where those talents would already be on display by other competitors, I needed to work with my other strengths.
The past several years have given me exceptional balance, agility, and control over my body. My masters also allowed me to continue my dance lessons, and muscle memory and awareness went a long way in my private lessons with Eleni and Pan.
Thoughts flash through my mind like shooting stars as I continue to float through the audience, keeping my gaze on the stage ahead, even as more faces turn at my approach.
The fabric of my inky black gown hisses against the marble floor, parting with each step to reveal my legs.
The dress is a southern style, something people at home wouldn’t blink an eye at, but here it will be considered a bit more scandalous.
But I added a subtle touch of modesty by borrowing what Eleni called stay-ups from her.
The sheer, glittering fabric, studded with tiny gems, covers my legs, growing opaque as it climbs my thighs.
I take a fortifying breath as I finally reach the stage and climb the steps, the glossy wood cool and smooth beneath my bare feet.
I make my way to the draping layers of silk waiting for me.
The fabric gleams in the dim light, shifting from pale gold to deep bronze, calling to me like a siren’s song.
When I first approached Eleni and Pan, I hadn’t thought I would enjoy it so much. But once I was in the air during our practice sessions, something fell into place.
A feeling of rightness. Of home.
As Pan’s song reaches my cue, I wrap my hands around the fabric, feeling the strength of the silk beneath my fingertips. With a flick of my wrist, I launch myself into the air, my body spinning and twirling as I climb higher and higher.
Silk and air wrap around me like a second skin, sliding over my arms and legs as I move through my routine.
The gasps from below become part of the performance’s melody, a discordant yet thrilling undercurrent to the symphony I enact above.
And for a fleeting span, within the confines of the silk, the audience below fades as the music swells, and I fall into the now-familiar rhythm.
I let it flow through my veins, spilling out of me as I lose myself to the thrill.
For a moment, I am free.
Free from the weight of my responsibilities.
Free from the expectations placed on me.
There are only the silks and the music, guiding me through graceful loops and spins. The Empyrieos fades away, replaced by a world of my creation.
The silk, my partner in this aerial dance, cascades from the high ceiling, a waterfall of shimmering fabric that entwines with my form.
Each climb, each twist and suspended pirouette, is a silent conversation between body and silken thread.
Golden strands encircle my wrists, drawing patterns in the air as I spin, the world below blurring into an indistinct palette of colors and faces.
I am both puppeteer and puppet within these wraps, commanding and yielding to the dance’s whims.
All too soon, the music slows, and I match its pace, feeling the melody guiding my movements as my body twists and glides toward its graceful descent.
My chest rises and falls with controlled breaths as my feet alight on the stage, and I lower into a curtsy as the final note rings out, humming through the otherwise silent hall.
I raise my head, my eyes finding Keres, seated beside his waning parents, who have once again appeared for the final trial.
Keres watches me, unblinking, leaning forward in his seat. His face is an unreadable mask, but the heat in his gaze is unmistakable.
An air of anticipation fills the grand hall, as if time itself has been momentarily frozen, and I straighten, holding my breath along with the rest of the gathered court.
The flickering aura-light casts dancing shadows on the ornate tapestries adorning the walls, while the indistinct murmur of hushed conversations creates an atmosphere of tense energy that infiltrates my body.
Everyone is waiting for someone else to break the ice that holds the crowd suspended in a frozen state, their eyes darting around in search of the first sign of movement or sound to shatter the stillness.
I blink in surprise when it comes from the person I am least expecting.
Queen Atalana rises from her seat and claps, a tearful expression on her face.
I can’t help but wonder how my performance resonated with her.
Did she sense the freedom I felt at that moment?
Did it awaken a desire in her to experience the same?
Whatever the reason, the sound echoes through the hall, a catalyst of an avalanche, and one by one, the others join in.
A rush of pride courses through me, although this is all for show.
A pretty distraction to disguise perfidious intent.
My eyes drop to the floor as I dip into another short curtsy.
When I rise, the applause fades into murmurs as Master Cyril steps onto the stage.
“An exceptional collection of artistry,” Master Cyril says, his deep voice filling the space with practiced ease. “Competitors, if you will join us back on the stage.”
My pulse steadies as I remain in place. The shuffle of the other contestants fills the air behind me, their steps a mismatched rhythm against the polished wood. Cynna’s sharp silhouette slices into my peripheral as she strides to my side.
The applause still lingering in my ears sours as I catch the faint frown etched between Cynna’s sculpted brows.
She leans close, just enough for her whisper to slide between us without being caught by the audience.
“That was impressive. You look quite…comfortable in the air,” she murmurs, her voice like frosted velvet—smooth, yet edged with a chilling sharpness.
The words are innocuous, but the weight they carry lands with precision. A flicker of warning ripples through me as I twist the ring on my finger. It appears the tentative alliance we had formed has come to an end.
Forcing the tension from my shoulders, I give her a thin smile. “Practice makes perfect.”
Her lips curve into a semblance of a smile, but her eyes remain calculating as she turns away, leaving me stranded in the spiraling current of my thoughts.
Master Cyril’s booming voice pulls me back, his hands raised to beckon the audience’s attention once more. “Congratulations, all of you, for offering such a captivating display of brilliance. A testament to your talent and worthiness to—”
Movement from the audience halts his speech. My breath snags as I watch Keres rise from his chair, his gilt-dusted cloak swirling around his boots as he steps forward through the shifting shadows cast by the aura-light.
Keres climbs the steps and strides toward the front of the stage, and the unease I’d forced to quiet roars back to life.
“Have you all been entertained tonight?” His voice drips with charm, but there’s something about it that has my hackles rising. A razor-thin layer of discontent beneath the silk.
The room hesitates, too stunned—or too cautious—to answer. The delicate silence stretches.
Keres turns, offering the audience a smile gilded in disdain. “I am not entertained.”
The words slither across the hall like an asp coiling around prey. My pulse pounds, loud enough to make the silence deafening.
“There are talents required of my future queen beyond mere spectacle,” Keres continues, his gaze sweeping the competitors, scorching and unrelenting. He stops on me for a beat longer than the others, and I feel my spine stiffen under the weight of his scrutiny.
“Grace, intellect, performance.” He takes a slow step forward, each movement calculated. “Yes, they displayed these well. But what of cunning? What of fortitude? My queen must possess as much strength as beauty.”
The crowd shifts, their discomfort an undercurrent I can almost feel on my skin.
Keres claps his hands once, the sound echoing through the grand hall like a hammer driving a nail through the room’s tense silence. Beneath our feet, a hidden mechanism whirs—soft at first, then clicking louder into place.
The stage trembles. My heart leaps into my throat as four blades rise from the stage floor, emerging from nearly invisible compartments hidden in the wood. Each dagger gleams wickedly, their sharp edges catching the sparse light.
My blood turns to ice as Keres announces, his voice silky smooth, “A final test, then. A battle of wills and survival. You will fight until only two remain standing.” He lingers on the word standing, the threat of it hanging in the air like thunderclouds heralding a storm.
Time warps as my mind processes the shift from an elegant performance to this sudden, deadly trial.
Can I do this? Could I take the lives of these women just to ensure my survival?
No. Not for myself.
My gaze locks with Nyssa’s, where she still stands beside Titaia and the two nymphai, and my resolve hardens.
Taking a life in self-defense—out of necessity—is one thing. But to sever the life of an innocent for anything less? That is a barrier I have never been able to break.
And yet, for her—for Nyssa—I would shatter every barrier. I would do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
No matter how deeply it carves into me.
“On my word.” Keres’s voice echoes, both distant and near, as my attention locks onto the dagger closest to me. “Begin.”