“Yes,” I manage after a beat, my voice softer than I intended. He leans forward, as though trying to catch my words before they even leave my lips, and I can almost feel Myna move closer to my back. I clear my throat and stand a little straighter. “It was beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, tasting the word, then tilting his head as if considering it. “I suppose beauty is one word for it. Leto has always been…dramatic, but then, the telling of stories is his craft—not mine.”
At that, his smile softens into something more sincere—or perhaps that’s just the flicker of the brazier playing tricks on me. He gestures toward the stage, now empty save for the brazier’s flame. There’s no mockery in his tone when he speaks of Leto, though his playful exaggeration tells me he’s well aware of the contrast between them. “Leto is my elder brother, our illustrious Troupe Master. He’s the one who tells the truths no one asks for, while I…” He pauses for effect and places his palm on his chest with a theatrical flourish. “I ensure this entire show isn’t all brooding shadows and somber tales, though even I must admit, his performance tonight was one of his better ones.”
I blink at him, caught somewhere between amusement and bewilderment. His energy feels out of place against the tent’s intimacy, but somehow he fills the space as though it’s his rightful stage. “And you are?”
“Pan, at your service,” he says with a flourish, his voice dripping with self-assured charm. “Entertainer, persuader of hearts, keeper of all things extravagant—and the best musician our troupe has to offer.”
“So, storytelling isn’t a family talent, then?”
Pan scrunches his nose. “Honestly, I find our history a bit…grim.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Stories don’t always have to be about history.”
“But that’s the thing about stories, isn’t it? They always start with truth. Even the wildest of tales, the ones spun from shadow to entertain or delight…there’s always some kernel of it hidden beneath the layers.The trick is knowing where the truth ends and the fantasy begins.” His eyes meet mine again, and he quirks a brow meaningfully. “That’s what makes them matter. Not knowing—but learning where to look.”
“I—”
“Don’t be a stranger in the court, Princess,” Pan interjects smoothly, spinning away with a practiced flair that makes his departure feel almost theatrical. He glides toward the carefree group sprawled across the rugs near the stage, their laughter swelling as he folds himself into their revelry.
Myna and Nyssa move to stand on either side of me, their gazes fixed on Pan with matching looks of curiosity. Yet, while Nyssa’s expression holds a hint of amusement, Myna’s is sharp and intent.
“I didn’t tell him I was a princess,” I say, the words sounding more like a question than a statement.
“You didn’t,” Myna replies, her tone firm as her eyes narrow.
We retreat from the tent, leaving the curious troupe members and their patrons behind. But the words of both chase me, the echo of their voices mixing with the memory of smoke gliding within shadows. All stories start with truth, he had said. I just need to discover which truth—if any—was for me.
A scream pierces the silentnight, cut off by a loud crack.
Shattered planks of a boat…bubbles floating to the surface of a dark, hungry canal…a too-small hand reaching—
The sharp knock at the door jolts me awake, each deliberate strike pounding through my skull like a relentless drumbeat. Pain flares behind my eyes as I squint at the sunlight streaming into the room, spilling over the murals hung on the spacious walls. The bed I’m buried in, draped with a luxurious canopy, mocks me with its comfort I cannot truly enjoy. A groan escapes me, the aftermath of yet another fitful night without somniseed clinging to me, dragging at the edges of my weary mind.
The vial tucked away in my nightstand feels like it’s glaring at me, its weight a silent taunt. I shove the thought aside and burrow deeper into the blankets, seeking solace in their fleeting warmth.
The knock comes again, sharper and more insistent.
“Anemoi strike me down,” I mutter under my breath. “Is a single decent night of sleep too much to ask?”
“Not even the gods can save you from this, Starling,” a voice drawls from the doorway.
I peer out from under the covers, my glare meeting the infuriating sight of Raven leaning against the frame.
His smirk tilts wider under my stare, all sharp lines and deliberate mockery. Something flickers in his amber eyes—challenge, maybe—but it only kindles the irritation already simmering in my chest.
“Everyone’s waiting on you,” he says, his gaze sliding over me with pointed patience before drifting toward the other side of my bed. “Including you, Sparrow.”
Next to me, Nyssa groans from under her own cocoon of blankets. Although she and Myna have a room of their own within the chambers we were provided, she snuck into my room instead. Nyssa’s head emerges slowly, her curls a tangled halo of defiance. “I second Starling. Wake me when the Anemoi decide to end this misery.”
Before I can open my mouth to agree, Myna’s sharp voice cuts through the air. “If I have to deal with these insufferable idiots, so do you two. Move it!”
Raven arches a brow in mock amusement, his presence a persistent reminder of the mission we can’t afford to fail. Resentment twists in my chest, scraping against the already frayed edges of my composure. Reluctantly, I shove back the covers, my limbs heavy with fatigue. Nyssa groans and follows suit, glaring at me as if this is my fault. My lips tug upward in a faint smirk at the sight of her still in last night’s wrinkled dress, but the amusement is fleeting. When I glance down, the stale smell of smoke and wine clinging to my own clothes pulls a similar flush of embarrassment to my cheeks.
“Give us a moment to change?” I ask Raven, forcing patience into my tone even as I stare daggers at him. His jaw tics in silent annoyance, but he rolls his eyes and retreats, shutting the door behind him with a grudging thud.
Nyssa and I move with unspoken urgency, stripping out of our clothes and replacing them with loose linen pants and tunics. I step into the adjoining private bathing chamber, a tranquil haven of smooth marble, intricate mosaics, and the subtle aroma of essential oils. With a longing glance toward the sunken pool, I lean over the basin and splash cool water on my face in hurried, desperate handfuls, hoping to wash away the stubborn haze of exhaustion. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror fixed to the wall—drawn, pale, but resolute. There’s no choice but to press forward. No rest. Not now.
