“Yes, but I’ve always loved storms.”
“Does it storm often in the south?”
“Not often enough, but whenever it does, I find the tallest building just to feel the world rage around me.”
Titaia arches an elegant brow. “Does a princess have a lot of pent-up anger to unleash?”
“I think everyone is angry.” I shrug, flicking over another page even though my brain stopped absorbing the words a while ago. “Anger is often disappointed hope.”
“I can’t argue with you about that. Here.”
She hands me a book, thinner than the rest of the pile. Its cover is bound in white cloth, the title embossed in gleaming gold:Myths of the Empyrieos.
Curious, I open it to the first page, only to discover an illustrated storybook of tales and legends—for children.
I glance up, only to catch the now-familiar spark of mischief in Titaia’s eyes.
“It’s always good to revisit the basics,” she says with a sly smile.
I sigh and roll my eyes but flip through the pages nonetheless. Leaning back in my chair, my focus shifts to the illustrations. The first story is straightforward—a recounting of the Anemoi and the discovery of the Empyrieos. However, my brow knits as I spot familiar shapes within the artwork, the same forms that flickered in Master Leto’s shadows, now delicately rendered on the page.
Then I freeze.
On the following page, an image captures my attention—a creature with a feminine face, a feline body, and feathered wings. My fingers glide across the page, tracing its intricate details, while my heart pounds with a steady, heavy rhythm. It’s not a flawless depiction of Sphinx, but the details are distinct enough to leave no doubt about the subject the artist sought to portray.
I glance up at Titaia and see her staring at the image, her expression heavy with sorrow. Gone is the usual mask of indulgent royalty she so often wears, replaced by the quiet, unguarded melancholy I have caught only glimmers of before now.
“This creature,” I say, turning the book toward her and pointing at the image. “You warned me to be careful before the first trial. Did you know of her?”
Her eyes lock on mine, no trace of the earlier humor in their red-brown depths. “Yes.”
“Does she normally live in that chamber from the trial?” I already know the truth.
“Sphinx does notlivehere.” Titaia’s voice is thready, laden with barely restrained emotion. She glances around before tilting toward me. “She’s a prisoner.”
I lean back, scrutinizing her. A frown etches itself onto her brow as her eyes dart between my face and the book. Her movements are stiff,almost hesitant, as though she’s measuring every reaction. I can see the storm of thoughts racing through her mind, but they’re still guarded, as if she’s trapped within them. There’s something in the way she spoke, a weight behind her words, that makes me wonder if Sphinx is not the only prisoner here—if she, too, is bound to this place against her will.
“Titaia.” I draw out her name, trepidation twining through my mind. “Will you show me where she is?”
Aside from before the trials, I’ve never seen Titaia act any other way than cynical or mischievous. Now her body radiates tension, her features solemn. The change in her usual demeanor—the seriousness of it—plucks at the strings of my heart.
“I may have only known you for a short time, Aella.” She looks me in the eye as she says the words. In them I see a song of pain that harmonizes with my own. Yet, as I watch, that pain shifts—softening into steadfast resolve. “But I have known my cousin all my life. I trust your intentions are kinder.”
A surge of triumph courses through me, only to be tempered by the weight of Titaia’s next words.
“But there’s a condition,” she says, her voice steady. “I want you to help me set her free.”
Her words pierce through, resonating deeper than I expect. “If everything you said about Keres is true,” I murmur, careful to neutralize my tone, “then why take the risk when it’s so dangerous?”
Titaia meets my gaze, her red-brown eyes gleaming with something sharper than grief. Fury. “Because, once, I thought I could save him. I was mistaken. If I can’t save what he’s destroyed, perhaps…perhaps I can save someone else instead.” Her hand brushes my sleeve. Whether for emphasis or comfort, I can’t tell.
I shouldn’t even be considering this. I’m no hero, no fabled heroine from some ancient tale. I’m a Songbird, and I have a mission to complete. But cursed Anemoi…it’s easier said than done with the memory of Sphinx seared into my mind. Blood trickling from the wounds beneath the collar at her throat, her voice—tortured and raw—singing,whispering,screaming.And I can’t shake the nagging suspicion that all of this—every piece—is connected, the threads concealed just out of reach.
I nod, the words spilling from my lips before I have a chance to fully consider them.
“Take me to her.”
It’s a miracle that I keep my expression neutral as Titaia guides me to the servants’ quarters and the very hall my Flight has been monitoring. I search the shadows, making no effort to conceal it from her. She will likely assume my unease is tied to what we’re about to do.
