The king’s jaw tightens, and a faint flush of color rises to his ashen cheeks. “You will speak to me with respect,” he commands, his voice rising with effort. Yet the strain triggers another violent coughing fit that rattles through the room. The queen flinches at the sound, her hands fluttering helplessly before reaching for him.
“Keres, please,” she implores softly, her voice trembling. “You don’t have to be so cruel. Your father is trying—”
“Trying?” Keres sneers, turning his sharp gaze on her. “Trying to hold on to a throne he has no right to rule from? Trying to drag us all down because he’s too proud to admit he doesn’t have the will to do what’s necessary? Spare me your excuses, Mother.”
Her shoulders sag under the weight of his words, and she looks away,unable to meet his eyes. “We’re only asking you to maintain decorum,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. “A public execution is not—”
“Decorum?” Keres repeats, his tone dripping with scorn. “You wouldn’t recognize ‘decorum’ if it ripped the crown from your head. You’re weak—both of you. And I have no intention of following in your footsteps.”
The queen opens her mouth as if to respond, but no reply comes. His words appear to have cut her deeper than steel, exposing the fractures in their family. Keres isn’t just angry—he’s been shaped by years of resentment, forged like a blade by the failures he now throws back at them.
“Do not forget who controls you, boy,” the king says, quieter now but still resolute. “Your power, your place in this world—it’s tied to this family. You cannot sever yourself from us.”
Keres’s eyes narrow, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “For now,” he replies softly, the words a quiet, deliberate threat. Without another glance at either of them, he turns.
I jolt back, my breath catching, and Raven’s arm instinctively wraps around my waist, holding us steady as I regain my balance. His grip is firm but protective, grounding me in the chaos of the moment. Keres’s footfalls echo heavily through the chamber, each step ringing with fury as he storms from the room. The door slams shut behind him with a deafening crack, the force of it reverberating through the stone walls like a distant thunderclap.
I tap Raven’s arm, a silent signal, and after a brief pause, he releases his hold. The tension between us lingers, unspoken but understood, as his hand falls away. Our eyes meet in a loaded glance, a wordless agreement passing between us. Without hesitation, we move in unison, retreating from the king’s chambers as silently as we entered, careful to leave no trace of our presence.
The turmoil radiating from Raven is almost palpable as we walk back to my chambers. It emanates from him, coiling tighter with each step. But it’s only once we’re inside, the door locked behind us, that it finally snaps.
“Fuck,” Raven shouts, his voice raw, shattering the tense silence likeglass. His fists clench at his sides, and I can see them trembling as he fights to keep his composure. “A power struggle is not what we need right now. Not with so much at stake.”
I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one side, though my eyes never leave his face. My voice is calm, measured, even as a flicker of doubt twists in my chest. “As far as your mission is concerned, this isn’t the worst thing. We need him distracted, and between the king’s illness and the trials, he’s completely preoccupied.” The words come out like strategy, a logical calculation, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince—him or myself.
“For my mission, maybe.” He paces now, boots crunching against the loose stone underfoot. Frustration radiates off him, and he drags a hand through his hair, making it stand on end like a storm is brewing inside him. “But not for yours. You’re going to be caught in the aftermath, and who knows what kind of chaos that will bring. You think this is bad now? Wait until it all falls apart.”
I exhale, steady but strained, trying to ground myself. “We can’t be certain of that. There’s still the third trial.” My voice softens, just enough to pull him back from the edge of his frustration. The third trial hangs heavy between us, an uncertain storm cloud we can’t escape.
“You’ll win, Starling.” Raven stops abruptly in front of me, his eyes blazing as they lock on to mine. He steps closer, conviction pouring from him like a force of nature. “You’ll win because you’re brilliant, because you’re a survivor, and because you’re you.”
He doesn’t say it as though it’s a compliment.
His tone is heavy, almost resigned, and tinged with dejection. It’s as if some part of him wishes I weren’t any of those things.
The air between us shifts, charged and heavy. I hold his gaze, and something flickers inside me—longing, anger, fear, or maybe all three tangled together. “My fate is for me to worry about, Raven,” I say, my voice soft but steady. “You can’t protect me from it, and I don’t expect you to try.”
His hand lifts, fingertips grazing the curve of my cheekbone with a touch so light it feels like a whispered flame. The warmth lingers, and I resist the temptation to close my eyes, only to find my gaze drifting tohis lips instead. Unbidden, the memory of his kiss ignites in my mind. It’s been days—long enough for reason to reassert itself—but my body betrays me in an instant. A flush blooms, rising up my neck, as I silently beg the moment to pass, to banish the echoes of his lips’ warmth and the quiet strength of his hands. Yet when I glance up at him, his gaze is unrelenting, fixed on me with an intensity that kindles the same fire.
My resolve splinters.
“How did you become so strong?” he murmurs.
Footsteps sound outside the door, and I step back, breaking the fragile contact of his hand on my cheek. My skin feels cold without it, but I can’t bring myself to look at him again as I retreat to my bedroom. My thoughts whirl, chaotic and loud, threatening to drown out everything else.
But amid the whirlwind in my mind, an unspoken answer to his question lingers.
I had someone who reminded me I could be.
The air whooshes out ofmy lungs as I step into the library at last. It’s been a few quiet days since the fateful banquet but tension still coils beneath my skin—like the veins of gold that crawl up the marble walls, blending into the cavernous ceiling above.
Morning light streams in through the tall gilded windows that line the circular walls, reflecting off the polished floor and filling the space with a soft glow. In the middle of the library, a ring-shaped counter sits atop a low dais, a group of elder tycheroi absorbed in their various tasks at its center.
Rows of white oak bookshelves stretch in perfect symmetry throughout the space, radiating out from the dais like sunbeams. Each shelf is overflowing with a collection of aging scrolls, gilded books, and ancient tomes. Tables, chairs, and small arrangements of lounges and armchairs fill the spaces between, scholars decorating each with stacks of books beside them.
A golden spiral staircase on the far side leads to a mezzanine level that curls around the walls. More bookcases and small private alcoves crowd the space, and a few tycheroi are scattered among the nooks and strolling through the aisles.
Despite the sheer beauty of it, there’s a coldness to the library—the same chill that permeates the rest of the palace. It seeps through the marble floors and walls. A relentless cold that creeps into your bones.
