Leaning slightly closer, I tilt my head as if considering his question. “A return answer?” I muse, my tone light but edged with challenge. “That depends on the question.”
I twirl the rose between my fingers, shivering as the dry petals brush against my skin. Keres leans back in his seat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning my face as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface. I continue to hold his gaze, unflinching, as the silence between us stretches.
“I’ve heard the whispers,” Keres says eventually, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “There are those who claim you have notheïkósat all. That the power of your bloodline flows dry in your veins.”
My grip tightens on the stem of the rose, the faint press of thornsthreatening to prick my skin. I keep my expression neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “That’s not a question.”
“Is it true?” Keres persists, undeterred by my deflection.
I take a slow breath, the whispers of the rumors echoing in my mind. When my decoy was sent to the Isle of the Winds, it only fueled the speculation, spreading like wildfire. A stab of shame twists in my chest—a bitter reminder that my father’s magic, the legacy everyone expects, doesn’t flow in my veins. “It’s true. Thetheïkósof the Sotiría bloodline never manifested within me.”
Keres’s smirk falters for the briefest of moments, his crimson eyes narrowing as if analyzing every syllable of my confession. His fingers drum against the table, an uneasy energy radiating from him as he opens his mouth to respond. But before the words can form, a sharp knock echoes from the antechamber. The sound jars the tension in the air, and both of us instinctively turn toward it. Keres’s expression hardens, his frustration concealed under a mask of indifference as he calls, “Enter.”
Placing the brittle rose on the table, I surreptitiously wipe my finger on the skirt of my gown. Heavy boots echo against the stone floor, and my heart plummets as the curtain draping the archway is brushed aside to reveal a guard.
My racing mind jumps to the worst conclusion—Nyssa and Raven must have been caught. The thought grips me with icy dread, my stomach twisting painfully. I hold my breath, bracing for the worst, but then I see her. Nyssa steps into view just behind him, her movements calm and deliberate, as if she has nothing to hide. There’s a demure smile on her lips, one that’s almost too composed, too perfect, like she’s masking the same panic I just felt. I let out a shaky sigh of relief, my chest loosening as the tension ebbs, though my pulse still thrums in my ears.
“What is it, Jorah?” Keres demands.
The guard doesn’t speak, but he steps forward and passes the prince a note. He looks to be around thirty—though with the way tycheroi age, he could be much older. Brown hair, cut short at the sides, shadows a face so plain it barely registers…except for the eyes.
Black, bottomless, too still.
I’ve observed that Keres keeps no guards near him—not evenoutside his doors. It’s as if he’s entirely confident that no one would dare to harm him. So, I make a mental note of this one.
I watch in silence as a series of emotions pass over Keres’s face in rapid succession. He takes a deep breath through his nose, and an impassive mask settles across his features, his previously warm eyes now stone-cold. Gone is the rakish prince I was to dine with this evening. In his place is a cold, cruel man.
Witnessing the shift sends a shiver up my spine.
The prince stands, and I stand with him.
“My sincerest apologies for the interruption, Aella, but our dinner will need to be cut short.”
“There’s no need, Keres,” I say, stepping closer and placing my hand on his arm. “Besides, there will be plenty more opportunities for us to spend time together during the trials.”
The prince looks down at my hand before taking it in his own. Raising it to his lips, he places a lingering kiss on the inside of my wrist. His eyes sear an unspoken promise into mine, and I pray to the gods that I’ll never see it fulfilled.
I resist the urge to bolt from his chambers, striding from the dining room without a backward glance at Keres or his guard. My gaze remains fixed ahead, resisting the temptation to linger on the open archway leading to the lounge, or the two other closed rooms. The doors of the antechamber stand open, their carved frames yawning like silent witnesses as Nyssa falls into step behind me. The soft rustle of fabric and the tap of our footsteps follow us as we continue out into the hall. But as we approach a marble statue nestled in a dim alcove, I draw her into its shadow. Placing a finger against her lips, I quiet the unspoken questions already shimmering in her eyes.
We wait in tense silence, the air thick with anticipation. Moments later, Keres and Jorah rush past, their voices too low to detect anything more than urgency lacing their tones.
“Follow them,” I murmur. “Find out where Keres is headed and who he’s meeting.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll help Raven with the lock. I want to see thesegoiteíahe mentioned.”
“Not even a queen, yet already so commanding,” Nyssa snarks, but she slips away from me, following the reverberation of footsteps as they dissipate. The sounds echo through the distance, and I wait until silence falls. Only then do I slip back to his chambers, raising a hand to the doors. I knock—two deliberate, measured taps, followed by two quick ones in succession.
Raven cracks one open, a frown shadowing his features before he gestures for me to step inside, his eyes flicking down the hallway before he secures the lock behind me. I glance around the antechamber and then turn to him, arching a brow. “Where in Notos’s name were you hiding?”
“I never hide and tell, Starling,” Raven replies with a smug grin, his tone laced with playful teasing. His focus lingers on me, eyes scanning every detail of my face, as if searching for clues about how I might react after our earlier clash.
Right now, the last thing I want is another fight with him.
I roll my eyes but can’t help the slight tug at the corner of my mouth as I make my way to the door I had glimpsed Keres’s study through when I first arrived for dinner. I test the handle and find it locked, so I pull one of the lockpicks disguised as pins from my hair. Stooping to get a better line of sight, I insert it into the lock, using precise movements to manipulate the tumblers until I hear the satisfying click.
“Impressive,” Raven murmurs as I push the door open and we slip inside, silently closing the door behind us. His voice is low, almost intimate. “You’ve really sharpened your skills.”
