The moment my feet touch the marble courtyard, I release him, yanking my hand back as if scorched. The air is crisp, biting against my skin, but it does little to soothe the heat lacing my fingertips. I sweep them along the fabric of my gown, as if the act alone will erase the sensation of him.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a slight movement—Raven flexing his hand. The sight sends a wave of something traitorous through me.
Focus. I need to focus.
Shoving the feelings down, I let logic and strategy take root where my emotions refuse to abate. As the others unload our luggage from the carriages, my eyes travel over the courtyard, noting the only points of entry are the sky-carriages behind us and the treacherous stairs leading down the mountain, both meeting in the courtyard hosting the arched oak doors leading into the palace. No fewer than twenty guards line the courtyard walls, blending with the stone in their pristine white uniforms. I tuck those bits of information into the back of my mind, like I’m sure the rest of the Flight is also doing behind me.
The palace doors creak open, the sound echoing through the space, pulling my gaze away from the guards and toward a group of tycheroi approaching. An elegant lady—close to my age by her appearance—leads them, her golden skin glimmering in the sunlight and hair such a dark auburn it’s almost black.
The group comes to a stop a few paces from ours, and they all drop into perfectly timed bows and curtsies.
“Princess Aella, welcome to Vilea,” the lady says. As she rises, I meet her eyes—an intense red-brown that watch me with a mix of curiosityand mischief, matching the slanted smile curving her lips. “I am Lady Titaia.”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” I say with a smile of my own. Lady Titaia is the king’s niece, taken into his care after her father died. From the information Raven provided on the royal family of Eretria, while there is no open animosity between Prince Keres and his cousin, there are no unbreakable family bonds, either. I wouldn’t consider her a potential ally, but it’s a weakness that could be exploited. “Thank you for welcoming me to your court.”
“Allow me to escort you to the throne room. The royal family is waiting to receive you there,” she says, gesturing to the silent group behind her. “Our servants will assist yours in taking your belongings to your rooms.”
I take in the group as they hurry to collect trunks and luggage. My jaw clenches at the signs of age apparent among some of them: withering skin, graying hair, and stiff movements, despite their otherwise youthful looks.
Goiteían.
Servants employed by wealthier tycheroi to conduct the use of magic andgoiteíamarks for them. A sacrifice of another’s soul magic to hoard their own.
Disgust burns in the pit of my stomach, but I smother it, turning back to Lady Titaia with a forced smile. “I appreciate it.”
She pauses, her eyes sweeping over my Flight with a measured gaze. “Will they all be staying for the duration of the trials?”
“Yes,” I reply smoothly. “My handmaidens will remain with me, and I would be grateful if my other attendants could be housed in the servants’ quarters.” Throughout the journey, our Flight had debated the best approach. At first, they considered posing as guards, reasoning that a retinue would naturally accompany me during my travels. However, trained fighters would attract more attention than servants, whose presence is far easier to overlook. By adopting the guise of attendants, only my handmaidens would be expected to remain by my side, while the others could move freely about the castle, blending in under the pretense of attending to their duties.
Lady Titaia offers a subtle nod of apparent approval before gesturing toward the palace doors. As she moves forward, I fall into step beside her, casting a glance over my shoulder just to ensure Nyssa and Myna follow. Instead, my gaze snags on Raven again. His shoulders are rigid, his expression carefully controlled, but I don’t miss the tension pinching at the edges of his jaw. Something flickers between us when his eyes meet mine, an unspoken current I despise for its existence. He nods once, and for some reason, it feels damning when I catch myself nodding back.
I force myself to turn forward, pushing the lingering tension aside as I step through the towering palace doors. The cool air of the entry hall greets me, biting against my skin, but it’s the sheer grandeur of the space that draws my attention. A grand staircase leads to the floors above; banisters painted with liquid gold circle each floor and provide a barrier for the central void that rises as far as the eye can see.
Small glass orbs filled with light are suspended from the walls in golden brackets. When I glance around, I see them everywhere, illuminating masterful tapestries and paintings.
“They’re called auras,” Lady Titaia says beside me. “Sunlight trapped in glass marked withgoiteía.”
My steps falter for half a second. I keep my expression neutral, though something coils tight in my chest.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, voice measured. “Do they last long?”
“They can be recharged in the sun. So, it’s not quite as wasteful as it seems.”
I scan the auras lining the walls—dozens of them, their glow steady and unnerving. Even if they’re sun-fed, there are more than necessary. Luxurious, maybe. Or indulgent. Either way, I’m not convinced by her sentiment. I say nothing, and the silence stretches as I return to studying the space around us.
Apart from a few guards standing sentry, the space is devoid of life, our footsteps the only sound as we’re led toward the staircase. As we climb, a murmur of noise becomes apparent, humming from behind the heavy oak doors on the landing ahead and Lady Titaia leans toward me. “Brace yourself, Princess Aella.”
Her warning barely registers before the doors open and hundreds of murmuring voices slam into me like a solid wall. The owners of those voices all turn to face us, and I suck in a sharp breath as I find myself the target of their pointed stares.
Mentally checking for cracks in my facade, I steel my spine, lift my chin with an imperious tilt, and follow her into the crowded hall.
I keep my eyes forward, fixed to the back of Lady Titaia’s head, watching the way the glass lights cast a gleaming circlet of gold on her dark auburn hair. In my peripheral vision, I note row after row of pews, each filled with immaculately dressed tycheroi who stare as we pass.
Whispers spread through the hall like wildfire.
I wonder what they have heard of me here. What they think they know of me. Do they repeat rumors of a daughter outcast on the Isle of the Winds? Or do they wonder if the whispers about my lack oftheïkóshold any truth?
We reach the end of the hall, and Lady Titaia steps to the side, bringing me face-to-face with the royal family. On a raised dais, overlooking the assembled guests, they sit in thrones of gold, framed by a grand tapestry bearing Eretria’s royal crest—a twisted oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching skyward.
