“Welcome to the first trial,” he announces, spreading his arms wide like a prophet delivering doom. The flickering auras overhead cast shadows across his face, making his smile almost sinister.
I lean forward, listening intently, while Titaia stares ahead with the grim focus of someone about to face the gallows. “For the prosperity of Eretria, it is vital that our prince’s future bride display mental acuity, wit, and grace under pressure. Tonight, you will be tested on those skills. Behind these doors lies your trial.”
The hall plunges into hushed murmurs, competitors exchanging quick glances, alliances and enmities alike stirring under the surface. Lydia smirks, her confidence almost obnoxious as she exchanges whispers with her attendant. Cynna, however, remains silent, her gaze unwavering as it flits from the ornate doors ahead to the competitors who stand between her and her goal. The tension rolls off her in waves, but beneath it lingers controlled readiness. I can see it in the taut set of her shoulders, the way her chin tilts in defiance.
“You will each be called in one at a time,” Master Cyril continues. “Inside, you will be asked to answer a single riddle. You will have half an hour and three attempts to solve it correctly. Only then will the pathway to the court—and to Prince Keres—open.”
“And if we fail?” Cynna speaks this time, her voice ice sharp and cut to unnerve. Her question earns a ripple of unease from the room. I don’t blame them; the answer isn’t likely to bring comfort.
“If you fail,” Master Cyril says, his smile widening to something almost predatory, “then you will not proceed. And your part in the trials ends here.”
The hall falls silent, every competitor stiffening as their imaginations craft the unspoken implications of failure. My fingers twitch at my side, but the press of the sheathed dagger against my thigh keeps me grounded. For now, at least.
“This is ridiculous,” Lydia mutters loudly enough for me to hear, her voice dripping with derision. “A child’s game for a crown meant to be worn by someone who commands worlds, not wordplay.”
“Worried you’ll lose, Lydia?” I ask, and her sharp gaze snaps to mine. Her sneer deepens, but I revel in the truth behind her performance—no matter how much pomp she gilds herself with, she is no more invincible than the rest of us.
“Princess Aella,” Master Cyril calls, snapping my attention forward like a whip. The eyes of every woman in the hall land on me, blazing with a mixture of anticipation, scorn, and unspoken challenge. Titaia stiffens beside me, sparing me a brief but intense glance. “You will go first.”
I glance over my shoulder and meet Myna’s and Nyssa’s eyes—one piercing and focused, the other clouded with worry.
Titaia explained earlier that she would lead them to the trial’s receiving room, where the competitors would emerge after solving the riddle. Yet, for the first time on this journey, leaving them behind makes me acutely aware of how utterly alone I am in this.
Forcing a smile that I hope passes as confident, I turn back and step toward the doors.
The guards on either side wrench them open, and the doors swing wide with an ominous creak. I can see nothing but darkness within, but the hair prickling at the nape of my neck tells me darkness isn’t the only thing lurking beyond.
I am strong enough for this.
I wrap the thought around myself like a shield and release a slow, steadying breath.
Then I step across the threshold.
The doors close behind mewith a resonant thud, stealing away the light from the hall and plunging me into inky darkness.
And I go still.
My ears strain against the silence, searching for any sound—any hint of what lies before me—as I wait for my eyes to adjust. Slowly, a faint, spectral glow takes shape ahead of me, like a ghostly ember flickering in the void.
With my breath stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat, I take a few tentative steps toward it. The light grows brighter upon my approach, illuminating the space around a pedestal as the glowing object takes form. A golden frame is fixed to the marble of the pedestal, its surface carved with detailed marks and a strange glass vase with rounded ends and a tapered middle, the lower filled with water.
As I examine the curious object, the vase spins. The water—now in the upper bulb—drips, and my eyes widen with realization.
A clepsydra.
I back away from the water clock, retreating from its circle of light, but the sound of something sharp scraping across the marble floor makes me pause, and then an unnatural sense of dread creeps up my spine, freezing me in place.
“What have we here?”
The disembodied voice echoes throughout the chamber, but even without the acoustics of this room, it would have been enough to justifythe terror clawing at my insides. A single feminine voice that sounds like a hundred speaking at once.
Whispering, hissing, singing.
Glancing down at the goosebumps crawling up my arms, I embrace the eerie sensation sliding against my skin, welcoming it as I curl my shoulders forward and glance around the darkened chamber with wide eyes. Cautiously, I slip one hand through the slit down the side of my dress, hiding it from view as I grip the hilt of my dagger. Recalling the advice to play defenseless, I force my words to tremble as I respond, “I am Princess Aella of the Sorrows.”
“A title, a name,” the voice says in its cacophonous cry. “But that’s notwhatyou are.”
“And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
