Bria was a few years older than Dante and I. Twenty-four, same as Dahlia. She had the same dark hair and golden skin as Dante and his mother, but her hair was braided tightly down her back rather than the free hanging ringlet curls Myrine preferred, and her skin was covered in freckles all along her cheekbones and jawline, even on her forehead. Her eyes were different too. Not the sharp green of Dante’s but a rich, warm honey. And when she smiled, it was genuine. The friendly and inviting type. I hadn’t seen Dante smile, not in any way that wasn’t wicked or teasing, nor his mother, but friendly and inviting weren’t words I would use to describe either of them.
Bria was a delightful change of pace. She was kind and patient, and her eyes shone when she talked about the Geist in a way that made me envious of her piety despite my dubious contempt for the gods. She was training to be an acolyte and, eventually, a priestess in the Upper Rings’ holy order. As such, she had many responsibilities and little time for any other duties outside of them—including teaching a grown woman how to read.
Which is why I was seated in her classroom, a nondescript, open-aired, arched hall between the library and the garden where Bria taught the children of her house all the legends of the Geist her people believed to be true. And because stories, as she said, were the best way to learn how to read, I followed along as best as I could in the copy of heroic tales she’d lended to me.
“Miss Bria!” one of the children cooed out sweetly, raising her hand, her frizzy black hair swaying back and forth as she sat up higher on her knees to be seen.
“Yes, Sita?” Bria beamed.
“Will you tell us the story about Alosia the Agile and her great winged hoofbeast?”
“Not that one again!” a small boy, the same age as Sita and always around her, groaned. “You always ask for that story! Tell us about Valin the Victorious and the Great Storm instead!”
A few of the other children murmured their assent, and Bria smiled benevolently at them even while shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, Sajan. Not today.”
A few of the children groaned in disappointment, but Sita only crossed her arms and grinned smugly at Sajan, who glared at her.
I closed my eyes and internally sighed. Bria had at least allowed me to sit in a chair at the back of the room rather than kneel on the crowded rug in front of her with the children who couldn’t read the stories of the saints themselves. The back of my neck was on fire from shame, and I was beginning to think a few more minutes of this would kill me when hushed voices from the courtyard floated through the window nearest me.
“—told you that, Olympia.”
It was Dante, and he was furious.
I leaned forward to get a better look in between the columns at the girl he was speaking to. Tall and thin with black hair and a scowl; it was the girl he’d been locked in whispered conversation with the day of the Oath. The one he’d wanted to be partnered with.
“Well, tell me again then, because I don’t understand what happened!” she cried in frustration, throwing her arms into the air.
Dante shushed her and glanced toward the open windows of the classroom.
I quickly leaned away. I should have stopped listening. I should have turned my attention back to Bria and her instruction of a few simple words in the old language which apparently appeared often in the House of Viper’s sacred texts.But I was too curious about Olympia and Dante’s regard for her to ignore the exchange occurring just under my nose.
“We were never sure we‘d actually be paired together,” he hissed. “We did our best, but we both knew going in we didn‘t have a clue how the matching actually worked.”
I turned back to watch, assuming it was safe now that the full force of Dante’s narrowed gaze had returned to Olympia. If he’d seen me watching, he made no indication.
“The Trials choose for us,” he reminded her, sounding even more exasperated than before. “Or the Geist do, or—”
“We trained together our whole lives,” she interrupted, stepping forward so their faces were only a few inches apart. Her jaw tensed, eyes locked with his in a gaze I’d seen before. When Cyrus looked at Dahlia, when Warren looked at Anna, even when Graham looked at Sophie. It was unmistakable. To put a finer point on the matter, her voice turned husky as she ran a finger up his chest. “We’ve grown so close.”
Dante stepped away from her. Olympia blinked and her shoulders fell.
“I’m sorry,” he told her but, though he might have truly meant it, the effort he was making at keeping his composure stole all the sorrow from his voice.
She watched him for a moment as if waiting for him to continue, to say something more.
“What does it mean then, Dante?” she asked, her voice so low, I had to lean toward the archway again to hear. “You’re done with me? You’re with her now?”
Dante’s jaw ticked. “Her name is Adrian. She’s my partner, so I’ll give her every opportunity I gave you until now.”
“Every opportunity,” she repeated, shaking her head. Olympia looked off to the side and huffed, backing away from him a step. “This isn’t fair, Dante. We’re meant to be together. You and I are—”
“Obviously not.”
She blinked at him, lips parting in surprise and hurt flashing in her eyes as though he’d slapped her.
I couldn’t help but flinch away as well, guilt welling up inside of me. This was all my fault. I hadn’t intended for it to happen, of course, hadn’t even known that breaking a stranger’s heart was a possibility, but I’d managed it all the same.
