“Cyra, please. You look exhausted. Sit.”
I sit, and she hands me a water flask from the dining hall. As I drink, the cold steadies me more than I expect, cutting through the fog of exhaustion and residual fear.
Astrid watches my face carefully as she takes a seat beside me. “So. What happened with Lord Evander?”
“He said the team works because wedon’tmatch. That we all bring such different skills to the table, and it makes us able to adapt to anything.”
Astrid gives me a small smile. “You’re ready, Cyra. You can do this.”
I look down at my hands. They’re still shaking slightly, withdrawal and stress combining into a constant tremor. “I’m still scared.”
“Good. Fear means you care about the outcome.” She nudges my knee with hers, grounding me in the present moment. “And if the maze tries anything, remember something very important.”
“What?”
“You’re not walking in alone.”
The words hit deeper than she knows. Deeper than she probably intended. For so long, I’ve felt alone. Hiding my power, hiding my heritage, hiding the addiction. Now, there are people who know everything … and still want to be in my life. The realization makes a lump form in my throat.
Astrid stands and offers me her hand. I take it, her grip firm and warm and completely steady.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you fed before you pass out in front of the Cardinals. I imagine that wouldnotbe a good look for a potential sovereign.”
I chuckle softly. This is my sister. My anchor. The person who knows me best and loves me no matter what.
Together, we start down the hall, Ren close behind. The corridor stretches before us, lit by the soft amber of night-cycle lighting. Our footsteps echo in rhythm, synced without trying.
Tomorrow, I lead my team into the Fractured Mirror.
Tonight, I walk beside the one person who’s never doubted I could.
Iwake to nausea so sharp it drives me upright before I’m fully conscious.
The room tilts. I make it three steps toward the washroom before my legs give out and I’m on my knees, ribs heaving. The basin arrives just in time for my stomach to empty what little it holds. Water. Bile. Nothing substantial.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I grip the cold stone edge and spit, eyes watering. The tremor spreads up my wrists, through my forearms, into my shoulders like something living under my skin.
The withdrawal isn’t just worse than yesterday. It’s mutating.
I splash cold water on my face and catch my reflection in the polished metal. Hollow cheeks. Dark crescents beneath my eyes. Skin the colour of old parchment. I look like the addicts I used to see in the slums, the ones who’d sell anything for one more moment of ecstasy.
I brace against the sink and try to breathe through it.
The trial starts in less than an hour. I need to function. Need to lead. Need to hold myself together long enough to get my team through that maze.
A knock at the door.
“Cyra.” Ren’s voice carries no patience. “The Cardinals are summoning contenders for trial preparation. You have ten minutes.”
I push away from the sink and stumble toward the wardrobe where my clothes hang waiting. My fingers fumble with the clasps on my nightclothes. The fabric slips through my grip twice before I manage to get it undone.
The latch on the bedroom door clicks.
I freeze, half-undressed, one arm still caught in my sleeve.
Ren steps inside and closes the door behind her with quiet finality. Her eyes sweep over me once, clinical and assessing, then her expression falters into concern.
“How bad is it?” she asks.
