I take a deep breath, settling myself more comfortably on the couch as I mentally prepare myself for a long morning. “Blood.”
By the time I’ve finished relaying my story of Sphinx, the blood mark hiding the secret tunnels, and Titaia’s wish to free the poor creature, my head is pounding. The others spend hours drilling me with questionsand sketching floor plans of the passageways and tunnels that lead to Keres’s workrooms.
As I predicted he would, Raven almost loses it when he hears how I followed Titaia. But his ire is nothing compared to the furious silence I receive when I tell them of my bargain with Sphinx.
I sketch out thegoiteíafrom her collar, and Heron and I devise the best sequence of marks to nullify them. If those don’t work, we will need to damage the carvings enough to break through the binding effect. Afterward, I watch in silence as the others make plans and Raven gives everyone orders to prepare.
I’d hoped he would stay once we were done, but he storms out before I even have a chance to ask. Sorrow and irritation war within me as I recall his refusal to even look me in the eye as he left. It’s not that I don’t understand what I did was reckless—I do. But taking a chance on Titaia and making the bargain are also the reasons our mission may be a success.
The memory of Sphinx’s luminous eyes lingers, and I can still hear her voice, low and steady, whispering of secrets and promises. The weight of our pact presses on my mind now, the invisible mark on my chest pulsing with the implications of what I’ve done. There is no going back, no undoing the deal. But I can’t shake the question buried deep in my chest—what price would I pay if we fail?
A soft scuff sounds behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to find Lark watching me from the doorway, a more serious expression than I have ever seen on his face.
“What?” I grumble.
“I know you won’t want to hear this.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But be careful with Raven.”
“You’re right.” I glare back at him. “I don’t want to hear it. Besides, there’s nothing I need to be careful of. I’ll be staying here, and he will be returning to the Sorrows.”
“If that’s true, then why did he have us searching this entire palace to find you last night instead of the weapon?”
I open my mouth to respond but stop, his words hitting me like asudden wave. If what Lark says is true, then Raven had been worried enough to delay their search because he believed I was in danger. The idea catches me off guard—I hadn’t thought that kind of concern was even possible, not after seeing how angry he was. But could it be that his anger was masking something deeper, something closer to genuine fear? The foolish butterflies from earlier reappear, but Lark’s next words put an end to them once again.
“You know what the Aviary demands of us,” Lark says quietly, his voice lacking the familiar teasing lilt. His gaze is steady, almost sad. “It’s the kind of place that doesn’t tolerate second priorities. Even wanting one…it’s a liability.”
The words aren’t cruel, just measured, a truth sharpened by affection. They strike a chord I don’t want to hear.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Lark turns away and walks out, quietly closing the door behind him.
I grind my jaw in irritation, but it bleeds out of me. It doesn’t matter; I know where Raven and I stand.
Soon, it will be in two separate kingdoms.
The sanctuary of the performance troupe is a stark contrast to the grandeur of the palace. Dimly lit and infused with the faint, earthy scent of incense, it feels more like a haven than a rehearsal space. The lyre’s dulcet tones weave through the air, synchronizing with the soft rustle of silk against stone. Yet beneath the elegance of each note lurks a constant undercurrent of unease.
Eleni circles me like an exacting hawk, her sharp eyes scanning every movement, every line of my posture. Her perfectionism pushes me past my limits, her demanding nature both a blessing and a curse. Pan, however, is my anchor—his humor and playful reassurances cut through the weight of expectation that Eleni never spares me from. Nyssa stands apart but watchful, her quiet solidarity a reminder that I’m not alone in this. It’s an unlikely mix, but somehow, it works—though I can’t ignorethe guilt that creeps in when I use the troupe performers’ camaraderie as a shield for my true motives.
Uncovering the weapon’s location has shifted the stars in our favor, but the relief was fleeting. With the Flight now focusing on an extraction plan, the weight of what lies ahead presses heavily on all of us. Every detail matters—every misstep could unravel the fragile thread of hope we cling to. My role is clear enough—prepare for the third trial, gather information when possible, and ensure my performance provides the necessary distraction.
Just smoke and mirrors with a pulse.
A huff of laughter breaks free at the thought, causing me to waver in my pose.
“Focus, Princess,” Eleni calls, and I return my attention to the final sequence of my dance. It wasn’t until after our first meeting that I realized why she looked so familiar—I remembered seeing her dance so effortlessly during the opening ceremony. When I asked Pan to play for me, she was more than eager to help with my routine. As it turns out, she is a ruthless instructor.
The last notes of the lyre fade into the air as I sink into a graceful curtsy, each movement executed with practiced precision. Applause fills the cavern, resonating like a warm embrace. Rising with a composed smile, I scan the modest audience gathered within the sanctuary of the performance troupe.
“Simply magnificent, my darling!” Pan declares, his voice brimming with enthusiasm as he places his instrument down and strides forward with Eleni and Nyssa by his side. The small crowd disperses, their murmurs fading like the lyre’s final chords. “I promise you, at the final trial, you’ll leave them all speechless.”
“I hope you’re right,” I sigh, accepting the cup Nyssa presses into my hands and drinking deeply. Anxiety weighs on my thoughts. The movements should feel familiar by now, comforting even. But they don’t. Instead, they feel like a trap—too easy, too controlled. The kind of performance designed to make you forget the stakes until it’s too late. While I don’t doubt Pan’s belief that my dance could lead to victory,something about this final trial feels off. It seems too…simple, especially when measured against the stakes of the first two trials.
“You’re fixating again,” he says lightly, though his eyes narrow as I stretch.
“I’m preparing,” I correct, though the wry tilt of his lips tells me he doesn’t believe it. “There’s a difference.”
“Yes, but dancing this perfectly might only win you applause,” Eleni murmurs. “Rumor has it, the prince prefers something far more theatrical for his court.” She straightens, chewing her lip before glancing askance at Pan. “Isn’t that the jest among the guards?”
“There’s a jest?” I prompt, careful to sound light.
