Chapter 27
Gray light filters through the tall windows of my room, mist curling against the glass and casting the room in an eerie glow. I twist my ring as I stare out at the coiling haze, hoping it will clear and finally let me see the city and lands beyond.
It’s been two days since the ball.
Two days since Raven departed with most of the Flight, and it’s as though he took my heart along with them.
There has been no word from Keres since that night.
With no bride announced and no additional events planned, the court remains shrouded in an uneasy suspense.
The king and queen remain absent, and the prince is more withdrawn than ever.
Lydia stalks the halls like an angry spirit, and the courtiers whisper in hushed tones, their glances sharp and suspicious.
The air is thick with tension, as though the palace itself is holding its breath.
Rumors swirl like a gathering storm. Myna says Keres has been questioning everyone—servants, guards, even courtiers. Fear clings to the walls, and every whispered word feels like a potential noose.
But I know the truth. Keres knows the weapon has been stolen.
I’ve been praying to every god that will listen that the others have gotten as far away as possible.
I know the prince was at the ball until the early hours of the morning, so Raven and the others should have had a decent head start.
And if they covered their tracks, Keres and the king wouldn’t have been able to follow.
Despite my rationalizing, a seed of doubt still lingers in my heart.
It buds and blooms—
Glass shatters behind me, and my hand flies to where my heart is now beating in my throat, my breath coming in sharp pants.
“Notos’s balls, Nyssa!” I hiss, turning to find her with a sheepish grimace on her face.
“It was an accident.” She eyes the vase where it lies in broken shards on the floor. “Besides, it was ugly.”
Her words shock a laugh out of me, easing some of the tension I’m holding in my body. It’s just the two of us here—Myna is out to see if she can gain any information on the royals—and I’m grateful to not need to keep up any pretenses.
Nyssa crouches to pick up the shards, her movements quick and precise. “You’re too tense,” she says, glancing up at me. “You’ll crack before Keres does if you keep this up.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She straightens, holding a particularly jagged piece of terra-cotta between her fingers. “You know,” she says, her tone light but eyes sharp, “this could make a decent weapon in a pinch.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Planning to stab someone?”
“Only if they deserve it.” She tosses the shard onto the pile she gathered and gives me a pointed look. “Don’t forget, Aella. You’re not alone in this.”
I take a moment to breathe, closing my eyes and letting her words and presence wash over me. Her quiet strength bolsters my resolve, and I find a sliver of calm amid the chaos.
The relief doesn’t last.
A loud knock sounds on the door.
My shoulders stiffen, and my mouth goes dry. Nyssa and I lock eyes across the room, and I see the same apprehension coursing through me reflected in her hazel gaze.
Nothing good, my sweet anemone. Nothing good.
“Hide,” I tell Nyssa, my voice barely a whisper.
Her lips press into a hard line, but she does as I ask, darting into her adjoining room on silent feet.
I walk toward the door, schooling my expression as I pull it open. Jorah, Keres’s guard, is standing on the other side. His black, bottomless eyes make me shiver as they track over my face.
“Jorah,” I say with a tone of pleasant surprise, in stark contrast to the bitter taste in my mouth. “Do you need something?”
“Your presence is required, Princess.” His voice is a raspy hiss—one I’ve heard before, whispering through the hidden passages of the palace.
Ice floods my veins as recognition slams into me, my body locked in place, breath tight and shallow.
Every instinct screams to run, but I force my features to remain still, smooth, composed. The pieces click into place.
Jorah isn’t just a guard—he’s the shadowed accomplice woven into Keres’s schemes.
“By whom?” I ask.
“Prince Keres, of course.”
I offer him a sad smile. “Let me change into something more suitable.” I turn to close the door, but he slams a palm on the golden surface.
“That won’t be necessary, Princess. He asked for me to bring you to him at once.”
“Of course.”
The one time I don’t have my dagger on me.
The smile on my face feels brittle as I step from the room, pulling the door closed behind me. Hopefully Nyssa could hear the entire exchange from wherever she was hiding.
“Are your ladies with you?” Jorah asks.
“No, I sent them to run some errands.”
He says nothing further as he heads down the hallway. I follow. The halls are empty, not a single servant in sight, and our footsteps echo off the walls. Each heartbeat assaults me like the strike of an executioner’s blade, resonating through my chest. I breathe deep, willing myself to calm.
When we reach the outer doors of Keres’s chambers, I’ve finally managed to rein in the fear, drawing it out from where it’s been steadily poisoning my body like the venom of a viper.
Jorah leads me through the antechamber toward the study and raps his knuckle on the door.
I hold my breath as we wait for a reply.
“Enter.”
Jorah ushers me inside. But he doesn’t stay. Instead, he pulls the door shut behind me, sealing me in with the prince.
Keres stands behind his desk, his back toward me as he stares out of the bank of tall windows that lines the far wall. The same heavy gray mist dances beyond the glass, shrouding the view of Eretria normally visible below.
He doesn’t turn at my entrance, so I take a moment to observe him in the silence.
His shoulders are tense under his white-and-gold tunic, one hand braced on the window frame while the other cradles a glass of amber liquid.
His usually meticulously styled hair is ruffled, like he’s been running his hands through it, upsetting the glossy curls.
His broad shoulders rise and fall with deep, controlled breaths.
Seconds drag into a minute, and with each passing moment, fear creeps back in, slithering through my veins and poisoning my mind again.
“You sent for me, Keres?”
Finally, he turns.
Furious red eyes clash with mine.
I am unequivocally fucked.
I stand my ground, a smile plastered on my face as he rounds the desk and walks toward me. I track every move he makes, the way his eyes run over every inch of my body before once again settling on my face.
“I’ve heard stories of the princess of the Sorrows. They say she was never accepted by her father. Instead of claiming her and giving her the title, he cast her out, sent her away to the Isle of the Winds. The stories end there, until you conveniently returned when I announced the trials.”
A cold sweat breaks out over my body, and I force my hands not to curl into fists at my sides as the intense need for fight-or-flight tries to take over my body.
“Those are stories, Keres. As you can see, I stand here before you.” I hold my hands out to emphasize the point. “Royal title and all.”
Keres tilts his head, studying me like a predator sizing up its prey. “You know, Princess, I’ve always found lies fascinating. They’re like threads in a tapestry—pull one, and the whole thing unravels. But the truth? The truth is a blade. Sharp. Precise. Deadly.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do you know what happens to liars in my court?”
I force myself to meet his gaze, my voice steady despite the anxiety clawing at my chest. “I imagine it’s something unpleasant.”
His lips curl into a bitter smile. “You imagine correctly.”
I stay silent, my eyes following Keres as he reaches for an aura resting on the corner of his desk.
The faint glow within the glass shimmers as he turns it over in his hand, inspecting it before stepping closer.
Without a word, he places the sphere into my palm, the cool surface sending a slight shiver through me.
Keres leans against the edge of his desk, his unnerving gaze fixed on mine. “Sit,” he says, his tone authoritative yet calm.
“I’d rather stand,” I reply evenly, tightening my fingers around the orb. My voice is steady, but the tension in the air is palpable.
Keres stares at me for a moment longer, his dark eyes narrowing, and the menace in his posture becomes unmistakable. “What is your name?” he finally asks, his voice soft but cold, like ice creeping over stone.
I straighten my shoulders, refusing to be cowed. “Why am I being interrogated?” I counter, my tone sharp. The room feels smaller with the tension thick between us, his piercing gaze never leaving my face.
“I asked you a question,” Keres replies, his demeanor edged with impatience.
I hesitate for a moment, weighing my options, then decide to meet his demand. “Aella Sotiría.”
The orb in my hand pulses, flooding the room with a warm golden light.
I refrain from glancing down at it, keeping my stare fixed on Keres and noting the way his posture relaxes as he studies the glow.
Understanding strikes me like a bolt—this thing can sense the truth.
A wave of unease washes over me, and I tighten my grip on the orb, my mind racing with the implications.
If it can reveal truth, what else might it expose?
“Why did you come to Eretria?”
“To enter the trials,” I reply, focusing all of my attention on the truth in those words. Light flashes again, only warmer this time, and when it clears, Keres’s eyes are fixed to the orb in my palm.