The thought curdles in my mind, dark and sour, refusing to settle. I hadn’t known her outside of exchanging pleasantries in passing. And yet, I can’t forget the sound of her scream. It was raw, sharp, and guttural—a sound that didn’t belong in a court of luxury and prettiness. That night, it followed me into my dreams, and even now, two days later, its hold on me remains unbroken.
I wonder if Dehlia thought she’d make it to the end. Was her mind set on the prince’s crown? Did she envision herself winning, standing radiant in the gilded throne room, with the court bowing at her feet? Or had she feared this would be her fate all along? That the trials would consume her, leaving only this deafening silence in their wake?
I want to believe I was stronger, that my triumph means something more than simple survival, but the echoes of her scream reminded methere’s no real strength here. Only luck. And luck is as fleeting as the weak sunlight breaking through the clouds above.
I despise that my mind has been conditioned in such a way, but Dehlia’s death has been useful in a sense, revealing what lies beneath the facades of the women I’m going up against. Zina’s forced laughter is more brittle, like a too-thin branch threatening to snap. An ever-present fear tints Helen’s coquettish smiles. Lydia’s wit has grown barbed, not with confidence but with a desperate edge. And Cynna—her stillness intrigues me most of all. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t falter, doesn’t rage. She waits, calculating, and I know her patience hides something as sharp and lethal as any blade.
But the main thing I’ve learned from Dehlia’s death is that the ornate beauty of this palace—the carving, the gilding, the marble—is a mask, just like the one I wear.
And no one will escape the decay lurking beneath.
My thoughts drift back to Sphinx—the blood seeping from the scarred flesh beneath the collar at her throat, her voice a haunting symphony. I’ve returned time and time again since the first trial, always searching for her, only to be met with the same hollow silence of an empty chamber.
This court is steeped in mystery, its secrets buried deep within the heart of the mountain from which it is hewn. There’s so much hidden here, waiting to be uncovered. I need more information to piece it all together.
“Can you show us the library next?” I ask Titaia. “I’ve heard it’s impressive.”
“I could,” she drags out the word, flashing me a pitiful look. “But I’d rather not. It’s up six flights of stairs, and you’ve already dragged me through half the gods-damned palace.”
Her eyes widen as they flash to mine, but she relaxes when I laugh it off.
“Fair enough,” I say. “Another time.”
My feet carry me toward the marble railing bordering the courtyard. Lady Titaia follows, and we lean against the cool stone. To my right, thecity spreads out from the base of the mountain below. The buildings and trees appear small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. My eyes snag on a lone structure amid the canopy of red and gold, about a mile out from the outskirts of the city. Thick cables lead from it and disappear around the back of the palace. It must be the servants’ sky-carriage station.
I’m about to ask my guide, but another deep voice slides over my skin and constricts my throat.
“Princess Aella, I had hoped our paths might cross.”
Forging a delighted smile, I turn slowly and come face-to-face with the prince. His eerie red eyes examine us before settling on me with an intensity that makes the fine hairs on my body rise. I take a deep breath and force myself to stand up straighter.
“Prince Keres.” I incline my head in greeting, and he tracks the movement. “It looks like the gods are on your side, then.”
He smirks and mirrors my gesture before casting a dismissive glance at his cousin.
“I thought you might want better company. Walk with me.”
It’s a demand, not a question.
A surge of anger rises within me, both at his words and at the way Lady Titaia flinches. The spirited woman I’ve spent the past few days with is nowhere to be seen as she remains silent beside me.
“Of course.” I glance at Nyssa and Myna, and they both drop into curtsies, drawing Lady Titaia along as they leave me alone with the prince. My eyes linger on them as they retreat to the center of the courtyard, where they make a show of lighthearted conversation between handmaidens. Yet Myna’s piercing gaze never leaves me.
I smile as I take the arm Keres offers, keeping my body relaxed as he places my hand in the crook of his elbow and leads me through the courtyard. The steady thrum of whispers fills the air once more as we emerge from our secluded alcove into the more public space, but I ignore it, making a show of admiring the deciduous wisteria trees as I wait for him to talk.
“How are you finding Eretria so far?” he finally asks.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly. “Not just the court and capital, but everything I’ve seen these past few days.”
My response seems to please him, if his self-satisfied smirk is anything to go by. Like my words were a direct compliment to him.
“I would imagine it’s very different from what you’re accustomed to in the Sorrows.”
We pass under another wisteria branch, and I draw to a stop, my eyes falling on the tall statue ahead. The air stalls in my lungs, and a feeling akin to pins and needles prickles down my spine. Prince Keres notices my attention, and his eyes light up as he leads me closer.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” he asks.
Despite the unease churning within me, I nod, struck speechless by the statue. The body of a woman has been carved by a masterful hand, the artist somehow capturing the sheer quality of the material that drapes over her curves. In one hand, she holds the hilt of a shattered sword, the broken shards fallen on the base of the podium at her feet. Beautiful wings flare from her back, each feather captured with meticulous detail. But what fills me with a creeping feeling of dread is the fact that she has no head.
