She regards me with a level, unflinching gaze, unmoved by the tremor in my voice. “Do you imagine I haven’t secured this place from such things? You’ve barely tasted what the empire can do,” she says, her tone edged like a scalpel. “This office has more protections than the Red Citadel’s high altar. You’re safe, for now.”
Red Citadel’s high altar…The reference means nothing to me, but it gives the unsettling feeling that I’ve barely touched the surface of Selen or her knowledge.
A ripple of skepticism passes across Zeriel’s face. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d risk this much for sentiment,” he says. “What’s your stake in this, really? You’ve been inside the system long enough.”
Selen’s lips twitch into a smile; it’s not warm, but it isn’t cruel either. “I have a vested interest, let's leave it at that for now.” Sherolls the empty vial between her thumb and forefinger. Her sleeve rides up slightly, and I notice the small mark on the inside of her wrist that I’d only briefly glimpsed before. Now I see it better: a half-crescent moon. An innocent decoration by appearance, but now I suspect it means something deeper.
“What you experienced here doesn’t leave this room,” Selen says.
She waits, searching our faces for a challenge, a crack, a reason to doubt her. Then she continues, “The protections will hold unless you bring the Inquisitors themselves through that door, and even then, they’d have to know what to look for.” Her voice drops a fraction, conspiratorial. “And the Ironhold has a long history of things going... unreported.”
I cast a nervous glance at Zeriel, who stands a little taller now.
“And if we slip up?” I ask. “If our magic bleeds through too much, and someone notices?”
“That’s why you must practice. Control it, or it will control you.”
For a moment, the silence in the office is absolute, as if the air itself is choked with implications. Zeriel looks at his hand, flexing the fingers as if half-expecting them to combust. “What’s your advice?” he asks, voice flat.
Selen’s eyes glint, the hard teal of shorn glass. “My advice is simple: prepare like your life depends on it. Because it does.” She leans back, folding her hands. “Time is slipping, and, more than ever, the tournament will be designed to rip you open. If you’re not careful, that’s exactly what will happen, with or without magic.”
Zeriel processes this, the lines of his face set with determination. Then he offers a single, firm nod.
“So,” Selen continues, her voice taking on a crisper edge, “I suggest you both join the class with the rest of us.” She glances toward the partially concealed doorway leading to her chambers, on the other side of the room. “Coincidentally, I’ve moved up today’s lessons.”
I glance over to see Byron stepping into the room, his unruly blond locks falling over his amber-gray eyes, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he scans the space. When his gaze lands on Zeriel, a slight narrowing of his eyes betrays something: recognition, perhaps, or a quiet wariness. Then he shifts his weight, positioning himself just ahead of Ellis who follows, as if instinctively guarding him. Despite the wariness in Byron’s eyes, there’s a strength in his posture, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn trousers. When his gaze meets mine, he offers the subtlest smile, before turning his attention to Selen.
Selen glances at the wall clock. “You and Zeriel certainly have good timing,” she remarks dryly.
And barely a minute later, there’s a knock at the door.
Chapter 35
Selen moves to open the door, revealing the cluster of women. Lira enters first, the dark hair which covers half her scalp pulled back in a tight braid, followed by Nyx who, for some reason, has a fresh cut above her lip. Vex slips in behind them, her eyes darting around the room until they land on Zeriel. She freezes mid-step, nearly causing Talyra Laverte to collide with her back.
“What the actual—” Talyra begins, then catches herself when she spots Zeriel. Her thin brown eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. “Well, this is unexpected.”
The four other women from the female barracks, whom I still know little about, file in after them, each reacting with varying degrees of surprise at finding the champion standing in their handler's office. The last, the youngest, with cropped, light blonde hair, cannot quite hide her curiosity. Her clear blue eyes widen for a heartbeat before she forces her features into stillness.
“Ladies,” Selen says calmly, as if having the city’s champion in private lessons was perfectly ordinary. “I see you all know Champion Caelith.”
“Hard not to,” Nyx mutters, folding her arms across her chest.
“Is he joining us?” one of the other women, the auburn-haired fae, asks.
“Oh, please say yes,” the blonde whispers, earning herself a sharp elbow from Talyra.
Zeriel doesn’t flinch, but there’s a faint, telltale stillness to him. Impressive, really, how a man who’s fought in front of thousands can still look mildly cornered by a roomful of women.
Lira's gaze finds mine across the room, and I remember her words from yesterday:“We need to talk.”Thelook in her eyes tells me it's still on the agenda. I make a mental note to find a moment with her today. Then I notice the absence of someone.
“Where’s Sariah?” I ask.
An uncomfortable hush falls over the room. Lira shifts her weight.
“A fight broke out in the bathing chambers last night,” Selen replies. “Tensions running high with the approaching preliminaries. Sariah stepped in to intervene and got injured.”
I swallow. “Is she?—”
