Chapter 24
Chaos erupts on the stage, and I lunge for the dagger.
The hilt is cruelly cold beneath my fingers, its unfamiliar weight thrumming as if alive. It runs in stark contrast to the heat rising in me—a battle of instinct versus all the skills I have honed.
I spring to my feet and whirl around. The stage feels smaller, fractured into sharp fragments of movement and noise.
Lydia’s voice cuts through the chaos as she surges toward Zina, their blades meeting in a clash that sends sparks dancing in the unsteady light.
Their fight is raw, all sharp movements and desperate lunges that tell me nothing has prepared them for this, but I can’t focus too long on them.
Cynna moves in front of me, her dagger flipping effortlessly in her hand as she circles. Her movements are fluid, calculated—a predator’s glide. I match her pace, feet light on the trembling wood, watching her. Assessing.
She’s deliberate in every motion, her balance impeccable. The dagger in her grasp isn’t just familiar—it’s an extension of her. This is not someone who’s wielding desperation. Cynna fights like she’s writing poetry in blood and steel, each movement a line meant to ensnare.
When my eyes meet hers, something cold and cutting lurks behind her icy stare. It’s a mirrored reflection of my own gaze, though hungrier, as though she’s dissecting every choice my body might make. Calculating. Testing.
She narrows her eyes and lets the dagger roll in her palm, finally catching it so that the blade curves toward her elbow. My pulse spikes.
If I am a Songbird, then what, in the name of the Anemoi, is she?
Cynna lunges forward, testing my reaction. I sway out of range, and her dagger flashes in the light before she pulls back. Her lips curve into a smirk, regal and mocking. “I wasn’t aware the Acolytes’ teachings also included how to wield a weapon.”
My steps slow, just enough to narrow the invisible orbit we’re circling. “No? Well, the education was very thorough,” I counter, my voice edged just enough to keep her guessing. To keep her talking while I come to terms with what must be done.
Of all the competitors, why does it have to be her?
If she’d given me a choice, I would’ve gone for Lydia or Zina—picked off one of the weaker pair. But she didn’t. And I think we both know who the real threats on this stage are.
I’ve already caught the flaws, the slight tension in her off hand—the arm that isn’t holding the dagger. Cynna moves as though untouchable, but no one is flawless.
From the corner of my eye, a blur of clumsy movement pulls my attention for half a second.
Lydia and Zina are still grappling, their fight messy and chaotic.
Zina shoves Lydia toward the edge of the stage, her wild swing missing by inches as she screams something I can’t make out over the pounding in my ears.
I feel the shift before Cynna strikes again, her dagger arcing in a low slice meant to catch my thigh. I spin away from her, my blade striking out and slicing across her arm.
“You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you, Aella?” Cynna says, her smile sharpening as she grips her arm. She pulls her hand away from the cut, and her fingers come away coated in blood. “But so have I. And I need this more than you could ever imagine.”
Cynna lunges again, her movements fast and calculated, but I sidestep, my blade catching her side in a shallow cut.
She hisses through her teeth, retaliating with a feint that I barely dodge.
Her dagger grazes my shoulder, drawing blood and stinging hot against the cold air.
We circle each other, each strike and counterstrike growing fiercer.
My blade finds its mark on her thigh, slowing her, but not before she slashes across my forearm, leaving the skin burning.
The clash of steel fills the air, and though we both land blows, neither of us relents.
Blood stains the ground between us, a testament to the injuries we trade.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Cynna says smoothly, her voice carrying over the din with almost a bored tone. She slices another careening arc, forcing me into a pivot to avoid her dagger. “But I’ll be the last one standing.”
The word resonates in my mind, ringing with sudden clarity as an idea takes shape.
Standing.
I pause for half a beat too long, letting my breath hitch as though caught unprepared. Cynna smirks, sensing advantage, and presses forward, her blade poised for another strike.
It’s a mistake.
I angle my body lower, catching the edge of my dagger against the heel of her slipper with a quick arc. The motion isn’t meant to wound—it’s designed to rob her of balance. Her triumphant lunge turns into a stagger as her ankle twists, and she crumples forward.
A sharp exhale escapes her, triumph replaced with a flurry of shock as I raise my foot and shove her backward onto the stage floor with calculated force.
Cynna hits the polished wood with a thud, her head cracking against one of the dagger’s dormant attachment mechanisms. Her blade skitters away, spinning to rest just out of her reach, though I can see her movements still twitching with defiance and rage.
I climb over her, cradling her face in my hands.
Her piercing ice-blue eyes lock on to mine, and her brow furrows with confusion.
I offer her a grim smile. “I’m sorry, but I need this more.
” I slam her head down, the resounding crack echoing in my own.
Her eyes roll back before fluttering closed as unconsciousness takes hold.
I linger for a moment, my eyes locked on her face as my breath quickens, and a tremor runs through my limbs. I haven’t used enough force to cause serious harm—just enough to guarantee she won’t be able to get back on her feet tonight.
Lydia’s cry cuts through the air, raw and guttural.
My gaze flickers back to the chaos across the stage just as her blade flashes downward in a clean, unforgiving arc.
Zina doesn’t scream. Her body jerks, then collapses against the glossy floor, a bloom of red spilling beneath her crumpled form. Lydia’s shoulders are heaving as her blade clatters from shaking fingers.
It feels as though all the air has been sucked from the room.
Even the court, with all their grandeur and pomp, seem unsure of how to breathe after what they’ve just witnessed.
My chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven beats as I stare at Zina’s crumpled form.
Blood pools beneath her, dark and spreading, as though trying to claim the stage itself. I swallow hard, my mouth dry as ash.
Lydia stands over her, trembling. Her blade lies abandoned on the floor, its sharp edges gleaming with fresh guilt. Her shoulders quake with every shuddering breath, but she doesn’t look down. Her eyes, wide and unmoored, stare beyond Zina—a thousand leagues away.
I force myself to stand, my blade weighted in my hand, heavier than before.
The scent of sweat and blood clogs the air, and I glance down at Cynna.
She lies unconscious at my feet, her body sprawled but still breathing, the rise and fall of her chest almost too faint to catch.
The silver hair that was once perfectly in place now spills wildly across the stained wood.
But her face is calm—still and dreamlike in a way that unnerves me.
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Every breath I draw feels thick, like I’m inhaling tension itself. My eyes flicker to the crowd. Their polished masks of intrigue have broken, replaced by something more raw—fear, perhaps? Or morbid curiosity? It’s impossible to tell.
And then there’s Keres.
His eyes are locked on Cynna for an infinite measure of time until they drag up to meet mine. My fingers tighten around the dagger’s hilt, and he smiles—slight, sharp, and terrible. He nods, and Master Cyril steps back onto the stage and addresses the audience once again.
I don’t hear the words. Not until the very last moment do they penetrate through the storm of fear and fury clouding my mind.
“—the prince will announce his decision the night following tomorrow’s masked ball.”
His words linger as the court stirs with hushed whispers and shifting silks. The Master of Ceremonies motions sharply, and guards flood the stage, collecting Cynna’s limp form and removing Zina’s lifeless body like discarded props from Keres’s twisted performance.
I use the chaos to climb down from the stage and push through the bodies toward the place I last saw my friends standing. As the crowd clears, I find Nyssa, Titaia, Pan, and Eleni already making their way toward me, each of their faces grimmer than the last.
“You’re okay.” Nyssa is the first to reach me, her face pale, eyes wide and scanning my body for injuries. She leans forward, and I know she’s almost desperate to pull me in for a hug. But our ruse and the blood covering me hold her back. “Aella, I thought—” She cuts off, inhaling sharply.
Pan approaches more slowly, his usual grin replaced with a grim line, his brows drawn together in disbelief.
“Cursed Anemoi,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
“That wasn’t a performance—that was a bloodbath.
” His eyes flick to the smear of blood on my arm, wincing.
“Are you hurt? Tell me you’re not hurt. Gods, you’re drenched in blood—of course you are. ”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “It looks worse than it is.”
Eleni steps in next, her face tight with shock, as though she’s struggling to make sense of what she just witnessed.
She reaches for my hands, hissing when she notices the dagger I’m still clutching.
“Aella, blood was everywhere. You didn’t kill anyone, I know, but…
” Her words falter, and she shakes her head. “That girl—she’s dead.”
“And she’s probably better off for it,” Titaia says from behind them, her arms folded tightly, her expression harder to read than usual. She doesn’t step closer, but her eyes meet mine, sharp and steady. And I read the unspoken sentiment within them.
Better to die than to be the prince’s bride.
“Come,” Nyssa says gently. “Let’s get you back to our chambers and get you cleaned up.”
The group falls into step with me like a protective shield, guiding me toward the fringes of the hall. Their steps are heavy with disbelief, their murmurs low and charged as they try to process what they just witnessed.
We don’t make it far.
“Princess Aella.”
My feet stop of their own accord. The voice is warm and smooth, refined at the edges but unmistakably firm. It doesn’t ask—it commands. Turning, I find Keres standing just a few paces away.
He moves toward me with deliberate ease, the crowd behind him parting as if they can feel the undercurrent of tension radiating from him. My friends freeze at my side, each of them equally still, until Keres’s sharp gaze flickers in their direction.
“May I borrow her for a moment?” His tone sounds gracious, but I don’t miss the way it isn’t really a request.
Nyssa looks at me, her chin lifting in question. I exhale slowly, nodding for her and the others to stand down.
“Of course,” I say, the faint rasp in my voice betraying my unease. I pull free of Eleni’s hold and take the arm Keres offers. His hand is steady, his touch cool but tangible against my skin as he leads me away from them and the growing murmurs of the court.
We step into the adjoining courtyard, where the cold night presses down heavily, the air thick with the lingering musk of rain and wilting flowers.
My boots click against the stone, the sound loud and stark against the backdrop of rustling leaves.
Still, I say nothing, waiting for him to speak first.
When we stop beneath the drooping branches of a wisteria tree, Keres finally faces me. His red-brown eyes gleam, lingering on mine in a way that feels more intrusive than inquisitive.
“You didn’t kill her,” he says, his voice smooth and unruffled as he steps closer. His polished words, sharp as glass, exude a calm that feels almost jarring given the subject at hand—life, death, and everything in between. “I thought the trial made that perfectly clear.”
I know he’s talking about Cynna—about me knocking her down, bloodied but still alive—yet his gaze dips too long to be curiosity.
A pang of unease flares in my chest, though I force a coy tilt of my lips.
“You said the last two standing, Keres. Why should I have bothered killing her when I’d already won? ”
“I think,” he begins, his hand brushing against the bottom of my rib cage, “you have a sweet heart, Princess. Beneath the hard shell of an exterior you wear, I think it aches. I think it bleeds for others.”
His words don’t feel like a compliment. They carry an edge, as if he’s imagining prying open my rib cage to glimpse my heart with his own eyes.
And yet, something about his words unsettles me. It’s as if, despite my carefully crafted facade—without breaking through—he’s perceived me. I stay still, maintaining the illusion of composure while my pulse pounds in my ears like a war drum.
But then—mercifully—a voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
“Princess?”
Nyssa’s voice.
I step back, putting space between us. Keres’s jaw tightens before he smooths his expression, but his red gaze catches on Nyssa in the distance.
“What is it?” I ask, clearing my throat as I turn to my friend.
“A raven arrived,” she says, her face a practiced mask. “A letter from your father. I thought you would want to see it.”
“Of course.” I glance up at Keres. “Thank you for the walk.”
Keres’s smirk doesn’t fade, though something sharper cuts beneath it as he inclines his head. “Anytime, sweet heart.”
I don’t look back when I walk away, Nyssa falling into step behind me as we leave the courtyard and Keres behind—but I can feel his eyes trailing after me, heavy as an oath.