I force a smile, keeping my tone light. “It’s been a bit of an adjustment, but I’m managing. The palace is…impressive.” My eyes flit to hers, carefully watching for any sign of her true intentions. “It’s kind of you to ask.”
She dismisses my gratitude with a wave and turns her attention to the crowd. “Let me point out the competition.”
“Competition?”
“Perhaps that’s a generous term.” Titaia lets out a snort of laughter—entirely unladylike yet oddly endearing—that unexpectedly softens my feelings toward her as she signals for a server.
The young man hurries over, his cheeks turning ruddy as we both take a goblet from the tray he carries. I don’t miss the fine lines marking his otherwise youthful face or the silvering hair at his temples, but I hold my tongue, focusing instead on the fact that the engraved silver chalice is warm in my hand, heated by the liquid inside, steam curling off its deep-red surface.
I frown as I raise it and breathe in the scent. Spice, citrus, and—most importantly—nothing sinister lurking underneath. I silently thank the Aviary lessons for teaching me the art of poison detection, no matter how excruciating the experience was. “What’s this?”
“Mulled wine,” Titaia says, taking a deep drink of her own. “It’s perfect for cooler nights, stronger thancalda.Try it.”
I take a tentative sip. The moment the warm flavors of orange, cinnamon, and honey, blended with full-bodied wine, hit my tongue, I can’t contain a small moan of appreciation.
“It’s good, yes?”
“Delicious,” I say, taking a deeper drink, the warmth heating me from within.
“Good. Now, on to more important matters—not that wine isn’t important. Do you see that lady over there? The one in the red gown?”
I follow the direction of Titaia’s gaze and find the lady in question. The flowing red gown drapes over the curves of her body, leaving the golden skin of her arms and back bare. Her hair falls in silky mahogany curls to her waist as she tilts her head back and gives a bell-like laugh.
“That’s Lady Lydia,” Titaia goes on. “She was born and raised in this court, and her parents groomed her to be the future princess. She’s a nasty piece of work and one to watch out for. The brunette on her right is Lady Helen of Pyrene—the capital of Reveza—who rejected multiple suitors from here in Eretria to pursue her place in the trials. On the other side, with black hair, is Lady Zina of Corinth; her family has one of the largest trade networks in the Empyrieos.”
I take in the last two ladies. Lady Helen’s tanned shoulders are drawn back with a rigid poise, a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her assessing gaze. Lady Zina, by contrast, carries a tension she can’t quite conceal. Her light brown skin shimmers beneath the lanterns, but her fingers twitch at her sides. They both wear pleated gowns in shades of gold; a fact that obviously displeases them, by the way they keep scowling at each other.
“And they’re all competing in the trials?” I ask.
“Yes, much to their dismay. The three of them have been friends since they were young,” Titaia says, smirking like she finds theirpredicament amusing. “They’ll stick together until they find themselves up against one another.”
“Are there any others?”
“Lady Dehlia from Lienz, a small town south of here that her family governs.” Titaia tilts her chin toward another brunette woman, this one with olive skin that glows against the soft white of her gown, a quiet kind of beauty that stands out without trying. Titaia’s gaze drifts past her a moment later. “And the last is Lady Cynna from Arkhadia.”
I blink in shock at the last lady. Her hair is like my own, ashen and wavy, though maybe a shade lighter. Eyes of icy blue—matching perfectly with the gown that drapes over her lithe form—flick toward me, narrowing at my scrutiny before they slide to Titaia and stay there.
There’s a flicker of something strange in my chest. A sensation of silk sliding beneath my skin before it tightens. Recognition, perhaps. Or a warning. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised at the likeness between us. My mother was from Arkhadia, after all. However, the similarities end there. Her skin is the palest I’ve ever seen, as if she’s never seen a day of sunlight in her life.
Pulling my gaze away from Lady Cynna, I take in the others.
Five competitors. Six, if I include myself.
My eyes roam over each of them, noting the graceful way they hold themselves, the fluttering of their eyelashes, the tinkling sounds of their laughter filling the air. I’m helpless to the way my stomach twists as I compare myself to them. These women have been groomed for this kind of grace, their movements flowing like water, their polished exteriors gleaming with an effortlessness I can’t hope to match. My own body, hardened and shaped by years of relentless training, feels wholly out of place among their delicate beauty. My shoulders are too defined, my stance too firm—unyielding where theirs are soft. I twist the ring on my finger and glance down at my hands, palms roughened with calluses from wielding weapons rather than musical instruments.
Titaia heaves a sigh beside me, and I follow her gaze to the dais, where the royal family watch her expectantly. She pulls my arm from hers. “Duty calls,” she says with a wry smile. “Enjoy the festivities, Aella. I’ll see if I can find you after.”
“Thank you, Titaia.”
She bows her head and throws a smile at Nyssa and Myna, who have been silent shadows throughout our conversation. I watch as she sashays her way through the crowd, gingerly taking a seat at her cousin’s side on the royal dais, where the royal family have been seated while presiding over the festivities. I note the way she sits as far away from him as she can manage without falling off her chair entirely.
The back of my neck prickles with awareness, and my eyes flick toward Keres, finding his gaze locked on me. He’s once again sprawled in his seat, his finger dancing lazily across the cup rim. My shoulders start to rise at the intensity of his stare, but I force aside the instinct to adopt a defensive stature. Instead, I bite my lip and drop my gaze, a private smile curling the corner of my mouth. When I glance up again, it’s to five additional sets of eyes watching me with equal measures of curiosity and venom.
Fortunately, the scrutiny doesn’t last long. A tall man steps onto the stage, his dark hair tied back from his smooth face and his body draped in regal attire. He raises his hands to the guests, the single motion enough to silence the courtyard and draw the attention of the gathered tycheroi.
“Welcome!” the man’s voice reverberates in the now-silent night, a broad smile on his face. “For those of you who are not residents of the court, I am Cyril, the Master of Ceremonies. Tonight, we mark the official opening of the Eretrian Royal Trials, a tradition that has been an important part of the Selmonious reign since the beginning of the end of the God War.
“These trials will see highborn ladies from all over the Empyrieos compete in a series of three tasks to determine the best candidate for our prince’s bride and your future queen. In keeping with tradition, the only trial we can tell you of in advance is the third. This will be an opportunity for the candidates to truly shine by displaying a talent before the court, something they think will please our prince. The first trial will take place tomorrow morning,” Cyril announces, his eyes lingering on me for a fraction longer than necessary. “Until that glorious moment arrives, revel in all the splendor our court has to offer!”
