“I'll lock the door from the outside,” he adds.
Before I can answer, the door swings shut. A soft click follows. Then his footsteps, retreating down the corridor.
Alright.For safety reasons, I assume…
With a sigh, I kick off my boots and head for the bathroom. The chance to wash off the night’s chaos is too tempting to pass up, even if part of me bristles at being locked in like a prisoner.
The utilitarian bathroom is a stark contrast to the opulencewe left behind at the palace. I peel off the gown, grimacing as the fabric sticks to places where sweat has dried. The water comes on hot immediately, and I step under the spray with a grateful moan.
As I scrub the grime from my skin, my gaze wanders—and lands on the peculiarity I noticed last time. The etching behind the water basin. Words carved into the stone, bold and deliberate. Hidden unless you’re standing at the right angle.
“My name was inked in blood, not gold,
And blood will call when tales are told.
Though scattered now, we share one breath,
Our story waits beyond their death.”
The verse lands differently this time. Heavier. Sharpened by everything I’ve heard since.
Elara’s voice lingers in the back of my mind: murdered wife, ruined name, treason whispered like truth. The words on the wall seem to hum with quiet memory. Or maybe a vow.
Inked in blood, not gold.
New money, not old. But blood runs deeper than titles ever could.
Blood will call when tales are told.
A reckoning, perhaps. Or a warning.
Scattered now… share one breath.
A family undone. But not erased?
Our story waits…
Not over. Not yet.
I trail my fingertip across the marking, water still dripping from my hand. The stone is rough, the letters carefully placed. Not a flourish, just truth, buried in plain sight. Either Zeriel carved this himself, or it was already here, left by someone else with a story no one bothered to remember.
The water begins to cool, snapping me back. I shut it off, grabbing the rough towel from the wall. There’s no time for riddles now. The tournament looms—and whatever this means, I have a feeling some answers are coming whether I’m ready or not.
I pull on one of the clean recruit uniforms Zeriel picked upfrom Selen the other day and towel-dry my hair in quick, rough strokes. I’m just finishing when I hear the door click open.
Zeriel enters, freshly bathed as well, his dark hair still wet at the temples. He's wearing a clean set of training clothes, but his expression is grim, focused. His posture suggests a man prepared for battle.
“Come on then,” he says, “let's go to Selen. Quickly.”
I nod, tossing the towel aside. I fold up Selen’s dress, the vials still in the pocket, and tuck it under one shoulder. Then I tug on my boots and follow him out the door.
We move quickly through the corridors, which are gradually becoming more populated. Zeriel walks just ahead, his shoulders tight. I study his profile, still not exactly sure what I’m pulling him into. What I’m pullingusinto. All I know is that, somehow, it feels right. Bone-deep.
When we reach Selen’s door, he knocks: three quick, precise raps that crack through the stillness.
The door opens swiftly, revealing Selen. She's dressed more formally than usual, in a fitted jacket of deep teal that matches her eyes. Her silver hair is pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face.
“Well, good morning,” she says, her voice cool.
