I cross my arms, tilting my chin up in defiance. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”
Raven’s jaw tightens, a telltale sign that his patience is thinning. “Starling, this isn’t a game,” he bites out, his golden eyes narrowing. “Every step you take with us tonight increases the risk of exposure—for you and the mission.”
“This isn’t just your mission,” I snap back, meeting his glare with one of my own. “And I’m not hiding in my chambers while you all skulk around the palace. It’s a waste of time and resources.”
“You need to be focusing on the last trial.”
“I’m as prepared as I can be,” I reply confidently, though doubt lingers beneath the surface like an unwelcome shadow. The first two trials have been anything but predictable, throwing unexpected twists andhurdles at every turn. Considering how they unfolded, I can’t bring myself to trust that the final challenge will be as straightforward as showcasing our chosen talents. The thought gnaws at me—what if there’s another hidden layer, another surprise waiting to catch us off guard? Still, I straighten my posture and try to project calm, even as my mind races with possibilities of what might come next. “Aside from dinners and court appearances, no one will notice if I skip my chambers at night instead of getting beauty sleep.”
“Just take her,” Myna says, and—despite the exasperation in her voice—a flicker of warmth blooms in my chest.
Raven’s jaw tightens, his teeth grinding as if he’s on the verge of continuing the argument. But after a tense pause, he exhales and gives a curt nod, the flicker of resignation glinting in his eyes.
We take a moment to prepare. Those of us who were at the ill-fated dinner tonight change into more practical attire and arm ourselves as needed. Nyssa bumps my shoulder with hers as we head for the door, her grin subdued but still carrying that signature spark of mischief. “Go show that moody Nightwing what you’re made of.”
I roll my eyes, but a small smile sneaks onto my lips. “Always,” I answer, the warmth of her confidence wrapping around me like a shield.
Then, with resolute determination, we part ways.
The hallways are quiet, the faint hum of distant auras the only sound breaking the stillness. The air is heavy, charged with anticipation, as though even the marble statues lining the halls are holding their breath. Shadows flicker along the walls, shifting like silent sentinels as we make our way toward Keres’s private wing. Each step is deliberate, every detail around me cataloged as I keep my senses sharp. The muffled sound of our boots against the cold marble seems louder than it is, but I push the thought aside, my focus unshaken.
A sharp crash up ahead shatters the silence, and Raven’s hand shoots out, tugging me into an alcove. I peer around the corner of the wall just in time to spot Keres towering over the shattered remains of a vase.Shards of porcelain scatter across the floor like jagged stars, catching the dim light in chaotic patterns. His shoulders are heaving with barely contained fury, his breaths audible even from here. He stands motionless for a moment before turning and storming down the hall, each step purposeful, his boots echoing with authority.
“Change of plan,” Raven whispers. “We’re going to follow him.” He doesn’t wait for hesitation, and neither do I.
Raven moves like a shadow, and I do my best to match his cadence. The tension in the air is thick, but I don’t let it weigh me down. Every creak of leather, every shift of fabric against stone feels magnified in the quiet, but I remain steady, focused on the figure ahead. As Keres turns down another hallway, Raven pulls me to a stop.
“Wait,” he murmurs, soft but certain. “He’s heading to the king’s chambers. This way.”
“Got it,” I reply, my voice low but firm, already moving as he tugs my hand and leads me to a hidden spiral staircase. The steps are smooth from centuries of use, and the faint scent of damp stone fills the air. We ascend, my legs burning with exertion, though I don’t falter. The air grows heavier with each step, but I push forward without hesitation.
At the top, Raven comes to an abrupt halt, his grip tightening on my hand before he pulls me behind a towering stone statue of a knight frozen mid-strike. I press my back against the cold marble, scanning the area ahead as Raven takes position beside me. The statue looms, its chiseled features capturing the intensity of battle, but I remain focused, ready for whatever comes next.
I hold my breath as two guards pass by mere feet away. Their voices are low, discussing patrol routes, but I don’t let my mind waver. Every sound, every echo of their boots against the ancient walls registers with sharp clarity. I glance at Raven and catch his subtle signal—a sharp flick of his fingers. Without hesitation, I respond with a curt nod, already preparing to move.
We slip into a dim room, the air thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and wax from long-burned candles. It’s a small study, cluttered with books and scrolls, though I note any potential tools and escape routes in a single sweep of the space. Raven doesn’t pause, moving to the windowwith practiced precision. When he slides it open, the cool night air rushes in, biting but invigorating, carrying the chirp of crickets and the faint roar of a distant river. He gestures once, and I’m already moving, climbing through the window behind him. The stone ledge beneath my palms is rough, but it doesn’t slow me. We lower ourselves onto the terrace below, movements controlled, deliberate, even as the wind whips my hair.
By the time I join Raven at the terrace door, he’s already kneeling by the lock, picks in hand. The mechanism resists at first, but he coaxes it open, smiling when the soft click of success interrupts the stillness.
The chamber door swings open, revealing what appears to be the king’s study. Faint moonlight, spilling through the windows behind us, illuminates the edges of gold-framed paintings and ornate relics on the shelves in the otherwise dark room. Every detail registers—the thick rug muffling our steps, the shadows stretching long and heavy across the room, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. I tread carefully, Raven at my side, our movements perfectly synchronized as we approach the doors left ajar on the opposite side of the room.
“You summoned me.” Keres’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. My head snaps toward the sound, and I find him standing across a sitting room, his figure silhouetted as he stands within the doorframe of a dimly lit room.
“Keres,” the king calls, his voice strained yet clinging to a thread of authority. “Enter.”
As the prince moves deeper into the room, his body no longer blocks my view, allowing me to take in the space more clearly. I stifle a gasp at the sight of the king. The figure who once exuded authority and strength now appears diminished, his presence fragile, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of his power. It isn’t the wear of age that afflicts him—it’s more like an illness.
But the tycheroi don’t fall ill. Not unless it’s the wasting sickness, a rare affliction caused by excessive use ofgoiteía.Yet there’s no evidence here of depleted soul magic to suggest that’s the case.
Raven presses in closer behind me, his hand landing on my hip ashe leans forward. His fingers flex, probably coming to the same conclusions I have. There’s something foul at play here.
The air here is thick with tension, mingled with the lingering scent of incense. My gaze sweeps across the space, cataloging every detail. On a massive four-poster bed lies the king, his frail body barely discernible beneath silken covers. His pallor is ghostly, his sunken cheeks and shallow breaths betraying the severity of his condition. A violent cough shudders through him, breaking the silence. Sympathy stirs within me, but I push it aside, my focus unyielding.
The queen stands at his bedside, dabbing the king’s pallid forehead with a damp cloth. Her trembling hands paint a picture of desperation—one I recognize all too well. How many times have I masked my fear with calm, done my best to appear steady even when everything threatened to crumble? It’s not just the king who’s waning here. The queen looks like a shadow of herself. How many masks has she been forced to wear to keep control? And who in this room is she scared of most?
“You’ll listen to us, Keres,” the king says, his voice hoarse but steady. “This family depends on you now. You must—”
“Must what?” Keres interrupts sharply, his tone cutting and cold. “Bear the weight you’re too weak to carry? Clean up the chaos you’ve allowed to fester in the court? Spare me your lectures, Father. You’ve already failed.”
