I exhale. Apparently even my eyes need discipline now.
A reminder of the role I must play. Champion and ward. Predator and prize. The illusion must be maintained, no matter what awaits us.
I straighten my spine, trying to school my features into the mask of the perfect ward, demure but dignified.
But inside, my mind continues to race. As we proceed down the corridor, I catch sight of my reflection in the polished marble walls: a strange, elegant creature in midnight blue, her face composed despite the anxiety in her eyes. For a moment, I barely recognize myself.
The grand hall opens before us in a display of opulence that makes my eyes ache. Thousands of candles hang in crystal globes, casting their light on walls inlaid with precious stones. The floor beneath our feet is a mosaic depicting the division of the fourteen provinces, fae rendered in such detail that they seem almost alive.
And at the far end, seated upon a jeweled throne, waits Emperor Sylthan himself.
I feel a chill race down my spine as his pale, impassive gaze sweeps over our procession. This man—this fae—who I watched perform forbidden magic just hours ago, now sits in judgment of us all. The same hands that seemed to wither living plants now rest casually on armrests.
“Champions,” a herald announces, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “Approach and be recognized.”
Zeriel's grip on my arm tightens fractionally, the only sign of tension in his otherwise perfect composure. Together, we step forward into the light, into Sylthan’s gaze.
Up close, his presence is even more unsettling. From the sharp tips of his ears to his eyes, pale as winter ice. His gaze seems to look through rather than at, as if he sees not just our physical forms but something deeper. Something hidden. His features are ageless in the way of preserved things, not young, but coping with time's natural decay. Silver hair frames a face that might have been carved from marble, beautiful in its perfection and terrible in its coldness.
Zeriel stops and bows with fluid grace, in sync with the other champions. I force myself to follow with a curtsey, keeping my eyes lowered, even as I feel a prod of shame for the gesture. Maybe, one day, I’ll be like that woman my mother once told me about, who refused to bow before the emperor. But that day is not today.
The silence stretches, heavy with expectation.
“Blaise Malvric,” the emperor's voice carries across the hall, each word precise as cut crystal. “Champion of Crosnia. Your aerial display showed... enthusiasm.”
The faintest emphasis on the final word makes it sound like a criticism rather than praise. Blaise's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but his voice remains steady. “I live to serve the empire's glory, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Indeed.” Sylthan’s gaze shifts to the next champion withoutdismissal, a calculated slight that sends ripples of tension through the assembled courtiers.
He faces each champion in turn, his attention so absolute that even the faintest tremor in a hand or hesitation in a voice seems to fall under his notice. The female champion with the golden drake bows more deeply, causing the trailing sleeves of her ceremonial gown to fan out behind her in a display of submission and style. The emperor’s lips curve in what might be construed as the ghost of a smile; his tone, however, is a cold scalpel.
“Adequate precision,” he pronounces, the two words landing like a sentence and a dismissal all at once. The woman’s eyes flicker with relief, or perhaps disappointment, as she steps backward.
Next is the champion from the Eastern Isles, who stands out not only for his intricate robes but for the ring of attendants who precede him, each bearing gifts: lacquered boxes, some rare flowering plant, a folded pennant heavy with embroidery. His drake’s performance had been spectacular, and he clearly expects recognition. The emperor regards the gifts without a trace of greed or interest, then allows his gaze to linger on the champion for a full, punishing heartbeat before offering a single, grudging nod.
“The mist-form is novel,” he says, as if discussing a minor innovation in plumbing. “But your control wavers at the apex. See to it.”
The champion bows three times in rapid succession, his attendants scrambling to gather the offerings and retreat.
One by one, the process repeats: each champion receiving in turn a measured compliment, a clinical correction, a subtle assertion of the emperor’s omniscience and the court’s priorities. At no point does his attention stray to any of the gifts or the nervous gestures of the assembled entourage. He studies only the champions themselves, as though stripping away the layers of pageantry to examine the raw material at their core.
It works. One by one, the bravado and arrogance with which the champions entered the hall seems to evaporate, leaving behinda residue of humility—or more often, concealed resentment. The watching courtiers, sensing the subtle rebuke in every word, respond like a well-trained flock: some lean forward, as if savoring the discomfort; others avert their eyes, feigning indifference. A few exchange glances, their painted faces momentarily animated by a private communication I can’t hope to decipher.
Zeriel stands utterly motionless beside me, his back a cold plane of tension, his arm locked in a grip so rigid it might as well be a manacle.
And then, at last, the emperor’s gaze settles on us. The air in the hall feels different—denser, prickling, as if the attention of the entire room has aligned in a single vector. I taste the bitterness of anticipation at the back of my throat.
Finally, our turn arrives.
“Zeriel Caelith,” the emperor says, his voice neither warm nor cold, yet somehow carrying the weight of judgment. “Champion of the Capital. A most... interesting display of skill.”
His pale eyes linger on Zeriel's face, focusing briefly on the scar above his eye. “I see you've maintained your father's penchant for calculated risk.”
The words are quiet, but unmistakably sharp. I feel Zeriel's arm go rigid beneath my hand, though his face remains impassive.
“Your Imperial Majesty honors me with the comparison,” Zeriel replies, his voice controlled to perfection.
The emperor's lips curve in what might be a smile on any other face. On his, it resembles the thin edge of a blade. “Does he? I wonder. The Caelith line has always walked the precipice between glory and... disgrace.”
