“How do I look?” he asks, turning so I can see the full assembly. A flash of heat spreads across my chest, sneaking up my neck and into my cheeks as I try not to let my gaze linger too long on Zevran’s frame.
“Intimidating,” I say honestly. “And ready.”
I help him adjust the straps on his remaining shoulder guard, my fingers working the leather while trying not to think about how this might be the last time I touch him.
“Remember what we discussed,” I murmur. “Endurance over aggression. Let the others exhaust themselves.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then you adapt.” I meet his eyes. “You outlast them, Zevran. Whatever it takes.”
Our eyes hold each other’s gaze for a moment, filled with things left unsaid.
From across the chamber, Lady Tavia’s young advisor approaches and interrupts hesitantly. “Miss Cyra? Lady Tavia wanted to extend an offer of mutual support during the trial. Perhaps…”
“Mars stands alone,” Zevran cuts in before I can respond.
The Mercury advisor flushes and retreats. I notice other advisors watching our exchange, analyzing every interaction. They’re treating me like a gatekeeper now, measuring Mars through me. A year ago, I was healing broken bones in an alley clinic; now nobles are recalibrating their strategies based on a no-name healer at a Lord’s side. Every time Zevran lets me stand in a place Commander Nael or Lord Vance should have occupied, he sharpens the target on both of us.
I shoot Zevran a look, confused and frustrated by his impulsive answer. He meets my gaze confidently.
“Mercury’s strategy is always to find alliances, but don’t let that fool you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Tavia’s only helpful if you comply.”
As I finish checking and adjusting every strap, movement in the shadows near the back entrance catches my attention. My heart stops as I realize a figure is standing there, barely visible against the darkened archway, with black clothing that seems to drink the light, a bone-white mask obscuring half his face…
My breath catches.
It’s him.
The same figure from the slums. The same spine-tingling sensation creeping down my back.
My gaze flicks back to those abandoned black flags hanging in the corner, then down to the masked figure standing in shadows beneath them.
The memory hits me with startling clarity: the alley, the attack, the way darkness itself seemed to bend to his will. In that instant, I make the connection: shadows. Pluto.
Lord Lucien.
The exiled leader of a dead House, presumed killed when his kingdom fell. But what if he didn’t die? What if he became something else entirely?
If he’s alive, if he’s been watching me, protecting me … why?
The figure shifts slightly, and I catch a glimpse of those same gloved hands that once commanded darkness to save my life. He’s watching the preparation chamber, but his attention seems focused specifically on me, not on any of the trial participants. Lady Nerida’s warning whispers back to me:the one who watches from shadow may mean you harm.Is that what he is? A threat waiting for the right moment – or the only thing standing between me and something worse?
My head starts spinning.
“Cyra?” Zevran’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You’re shaking.”
I look down at my hands. He’s right. I’m not entirely sure if the tremors are from withdrawal or from the realization that the Lord of Pluto may be watching over me.
I don’t have time to think this through right now.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just nervous for you.”
A horn sounds somewhere in the distance, deep and resonant. The leaders begin moving toward the arena entrance, their advisors following to the observation areas.
Zevran turns to me one last time. “Cyra—if something goes wrong?—”
“Nothing will go wrong.” The words come out more forcefully than I intend. “You’re going to win this.”
