His hand is still touching mine on the datapad. Neither of us has moved. In a few hours, he’ll step into the Furnace. And I’ll be in the stands, watching.
Hoping.
The medical chamber smells of latex and bleach.
Light filters through glass walls in bands, slicing across Zevran’s bare shoulders as the Cardinals document every movement of my hands. I press my palm to his chest and force the magic to cooperate. No euphoria, no shimmer of release, only enough to both heal and fly under the radar.
The crescent moon sigil at my sternum glows once, faintly, before dimming again.
Cardinal Benedict steps closer, his breath catching. “Extraordinary. A moon sigil – an authentic one – but you have never undergone the Daughter’s Rite…”
Cardinal Maria joins him, her eyes narrowing. “Sigils are a rarity. Even among Daughters of the Moon, very few receive them. How did you come about to have this?”
I hadn’t prepared for this question.
“I—” The hesitation catches in my throat.
Zevran’s voice sharpens. “What matters is her work, not the origin of a mark she cannot control. She is here to restore my health before the trial. She owes you no explanation.”
A tense silence follows. Cardinal Benedict’s eyes move between us.
“Indeed,” he says finally. “You may proceed.”
The familiar tingling builds in my chest, but I strangle it before it can blossom into the addictive rush I crave. I ration the magic out in careful threads instead of letting it surge, terrified the scribes will see any spike and write it down as an anomaly … as danger. The sigil pulses weakly again beneath my sternum as healing energy trickles through my fingertips into Zevran. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make a sound. But I feel the tension leave his muscles as the luminescent veins beneath his skin begin to fade.
“Heart rate stable,” a Cardinal scribe notes from somewhere behind me. “Magic output within acceptable parameters.”
The withdrawal aches beneath my skin, made worse by having to touch him without allowing myself to feel the high. My hands tremble as I pull away, and I clasp them behind my back so the Cardinals won’t see.
“The healing is complete,” I announce. My voice sounds hollow.
Cardinal Benedict steps forward, assessing Zevran’s back where the sickly grey veins have faded to almost nothing. “Efficient work. Mars receives no advantage beyond restoration to baseline health.”
“Lord Zevran of Mars,” Cardinal Maria says, making a notation on her datapad. “Cleared for trial one.”
Two guards step between us immediately, severing the connection. One gestures for Zevran to follow them toward the preparation chambers. The other waits to escort me separately.
Zevran’s eyes find mine one last time. I want to reach for him, want to ask if the healing took properly, want to do anything except stand here watching him walk away.
But the guards are already moving, and the last thing I see before he disappears down the corridor is the set of his shoulders, confident and ready.
As I’m led down the corridor to the preparation chamber, I press my palms against my ribs, trying to ease the gnawing emptiness that sits beneath my breastbone. It doesn’t help. The ache only deepens as the sound of the guard’s footsteps continue ahead of me.
I think about the letter I sent to Astrid yesterday, catching her up on everything that’s happened. In her last letter to me, Astrid confirmed there’s still no news of Mother.
She’s fine. She has to be fine.
I shake my head, releasing the thought. I can’t afford to think about anything right now except keeping Zevran alive through the trial.
I feel a wave of nervous energy wash over me as I walk into the preparation chamber. The space is massive, with stone walls that curve upward into a vaulted ceiling at least fifty feet high. Arched doorways line one side, each leading to private alcoves for individual Houses, while the opposite wall is dominated by a series of narrow windows that look out onto the arena floor below. The stone here is dark, almost black, and absorbs sound in a way that makes every conversation feel like a secret.
Advisors, aides, and House leaders cluster in tense groups, some reviewing last-minute strategic advice, while others engage in subtle psychological warfare. The air feels charged, dangerous.
My eyes drift upward to the banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Each House’s colours are represented in bold displays: Mars’s crimson, Venus’s amber, Jupiter’s grey-green, Saturn’s deep purple, Mercury’s silver and navy, Neptune’s ocean blue and sea green, Uranus’s ice-white. And in the far corner, partially obscured by shadow, hangs a set of tattered black flags with faded silver symbols I can barely make out … the abandoned banners of Pluto.
I spot Zevran immediately near the Mars section. He’s in the middle of strapping on his arena attire, dark leather and metal plates designed for mobility and protection. The red of Mars stands bold against the black. An attendant helps adjust the shoulder guards while Zevran tests the range of motion in his arms.
When he sees me, he dismisses the attendant with a curt nod.
