When we step into the sitting room, it’s a study in exhaustion. The space is larger than the bedroom, its warm, autumnal-hued furniturescattered about in a way that feels both inviting and chaotic. Draping veils of fabric hang over the tall windows, partially blocking the sunlight, casting the room in a muted glow. The others nurse steaming cups ofcaldalike lifelines, their bleary eyes reddened from a relentless night of searching. Even Myna looks frayed around the edges, her sharp demeanor softened by fatigue.
My muscles tense as I glance at the vessel ofcaldaon the low table, its faint curl of steam rising like hope in the air. I pour two cups, passing one to Nyssa before sinking into a seat. The liquid does little to soothe the pit in my stomach, but at least it drives away the sluggish haze clouding my mind.
Lory eventually breaks the silence, his voice low, strained. “What’s the update, Commander?”
Raven steps forward, his presence heavier, more commanding now. He unrolls a series of parchment sheets across the table, the intricate floor plans of the palace spilling into view. Each line speaks of his tireless effort to map the labyrinthine halls, but the shaded sections—areas eliminated, locked doors left unpassed—feel like silent accusations of failure. My chest tightens.
“Between us, we’ve covered most of the palace,” Raven begins, his tone clipped, precise. “We have already checked the shaded areas. That leaves a few key areas. They’ll be harder to reach, but we have plenty of time, with the trials distracting the court.”
Heron leans forward, his frown deepening as he points to rooms on the maps. “I searched these areas here, and they were all clear.”
Lark and Lory both point out the areas they searched, and Raven crosses them out with a piece of charcoal. The tension in the room tightens like string pulled taut, each word another twist of the knife. Heron’s eyes flick toward me, his pity only fueling the frustration building inside me. I ball my fists, forcing my own feelings down. Now isn’t the time to crumble.
“We have no choice but to continue,” Raven says, his voice hard as steel as he sweeps his gaze over the group. “Starling, your focus is on winning the trials and securing your place in the Eretrian court. Ours is to find the weapon. But if you see anything—symbols, clues, anythingout of the ordinary—you tell me. Sparrow and Myna, you’ll remain as handmaidens for now. The rest will comb through every shadow of this palace, no matter what it takes.”
His words hang heavy in the air. I glance at Nyssa, her expression mirroring my own grim determination.
Then his stare lands on me, precise and unwavering.
“How did it go last night?” Raven asks.
I shrug, the motion tense. “Nothing of note. The royal family stayed in their seats the entire time. Keres spent most of the evening observing the competitors, but there’s little to report. Though they announced the final trial—it’s supposed to be some spectacle, a performance of sorts.”
Lark scoffs, his voice dry with disbelief. “That doesn’t sound like the prince.”
“Making women perform and vie for his attention?” Myna snaps, her words cutting through the room like ice. “It sounds exactly like him.”
“Enough,” Raven growls. The command pulls every set of eyes back to him, but his gaze holds mine for a moment, heavy and searching. “Do you have a plan?”
“I’m going to dance,” I reply, my voice steady even though my heart races. The words hang in the air for a moment, met with silent skepticism.
“We’ll evaluate your talent,” Heron says, cutting straight to the point.
My jaw tightens, but I force myself to stay calm. I’ve spent long hours under the guidance of royal instructors and Calliope. Outside of those taught by the Aviary, it’s my strongest skill. Before I can defend myself, Raven cuts in. “She has the talent—I know.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.
The words hit me hard, a mix of emotions surging through me. It’s not just that he’s speaking for me, as though I can’t prove myself—it’s the layers beneath his statement that unsettle me. A reminder of a shared history I would rather forget. But alongside the irritation, there’s something else: begrudging gratitude that he believes in me. My stomach churns, anger and appreciation tangling together. I glare at him, searching for some acknowledgment, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he faces the rest. “What of the first two trials? Do we have any information about those?”
“None,” Myna answers, her voice holding an edge of frustration.“They’re tightly guarded secrets, to avoid tampering. Each set of trials is unique, designed to reflect the whims of the royalty.”
The room plunges into silence once more. The stakes are suffocating, and yet, I have to push forward. My eyes latch on to Nyssa’s determined expression beside me, which bolsters my resolve.
For her. For all of us. I can’t fail.
“You all need to focus on the weapon. Time is limited, and we can’t afford to waste a second.” I rise to my feet, forcing the storm of emotions in my chest into the carefully crafted box I’ve built for moments like this. With them locked away, I turn my focus to the task ahead.
The first trial is about to begin, and I intend to win.
The Flight retreat into the shadows, granting me a moment to adorn myself like royalty before rushing to the palace’s lower halls. There, the other contestants are already assembled, the atmosphere heavy with tension and the unspoken burden of rivalry hanging over us all.
My heartbeat pounds in time with the steady scrape of heels against marble as the competitors shift in place, their unease an untamed energy crackling between us. I force myself to exhale, clinging to the illusion of calm while Lydia’s venomous gaze threatens to skewer me from across the room. Zina and Helen mirror her malice, their expressions sharp with disdain, as though they can destroy me with their collective glare alone.
I can only wonder what I’ve done to provoke their ire. Perhaps it’s my position as the highest-ranking noble among them. Or maybe my lingering glances at Prince Keres last night didn’t escape their notice. I’m grateful to have Titaia at my side and the comforting presence of Nyssa and Myna at my back. But even their comfort isn’t enough to temper the animosity swirling around us. To my right, Dehlia fidgets with her pearl-studded necklace, her hands trembling. Lady Cynna skirts around the gathering, her frost-blue eyes skating over the crowd like a hawk scanning for weakness. I meet her gaze as she approaches, and for an instant, it feels as though she’s stripped my defenses bare. There’s an icyedge to her beauty, the kind that cuts rather than dazzles, and her attention lingers on me just long enough to make my pulse falter.
“Princess Aella,” the Arkhadian lady murmurs when she stops nearby, her voice as frigid as her gaze, “it seems the Sorrows are eager to forge bonds that even history warns against.”
Her words drip with pointed intent, wrapped in civility but weighted with something far sharper. I raise an eyebrow, refusing to shrink under her scrutiny. “Lady Cynna, we could say the same of Arkhadia, could we not?”
Her full lips curl—a ghost of a smile, more warning than amusement. Before she can sharpen her claws further, Master Cyril’s voice booms from the front of the room.
