“Just talk,” he replies, though the mischief is gone from his smile. “But if you want my advice, darling…Perform like your life depends on it.”
I force a laugh, but guilt twists in my chest. As Pan and Eleni chatter about the other contestants, my gaze drifts to Nyssa. Our eyes meet, and I see my own guilt reflected in hers, as sharp and undeniable as my own.
The two nymphai have proven to be an invaluable source of information. In their presence, gossip flows unchecked, as courtiers rarely suspect that musicians and dancers might be listening, gleaning secrets from hushed whispers exchanged in shadowed corners.
Some of the offhand comments they’ve made today have only strengthened my suspicions, piecing together the fragmented tapestry in my mind. At first, I believed the weapon’s presence, the trials, and the king’s deteriorating health were nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence—a perfect storm of events. Now I am certain they are threads woven into the fabric of Keres’s calculated schemes.
In Eretria, the Royal Trials signify an impending transfer of power, but more importantly, they require the new ruler to marry before taking the throne—a tradition meant to secure the bloodline and ensure succession. If Keres remains unmarried, his claim to the crown becomes vulnerable to dispute. Combined with the king’s failing health, this gives Keres the perfect opportunity to consolidate his power, strengthen his alliances, and tighten his grip on the court.
I avoid pressing them for details about the trials, particularly afterPan’s subtle warning during our initial conversation. Instead, I focus on absorbing everything else—small bits of information they might consider insignificant but which could prove valuable.
“Lady Titaia,” Pan says, loud enough to pull me from my thoughts. I arch a brow at him, but he lowers into a flourishing bow, concealing the beginning of a coy smile. “To what do we owe your—”
“I need to speak with Princess Aella,” she says quickly, her tone firm but with an edge of tension. There’s a flicker of unease beneath her certainty.
Pan and Eleni slip away, vanishing into the labyrinth of tents. I turn to Titaia, a frown already forming as I take in her expression. Her face is tense, the usual glow that surrounds her dimmed, as if some unseen weight has drained her vitality. The image of King Daedalus, weak and coughing in his bed, flashes unbidden in my mind. Panic surges, and I step closer to her. “What’s wrong?”
Titaia glances around the cavern, and a wave of unease prickles over my skin like icy fingertips. Even here, in this sanctuary hidden from the prying eyes of the court, the air feels heavy, charged with unseen tension.
It feels too open, too vulnerable.
I take her hand—it’s cold, trembling—and guide her away from the center of activity. The sounds of the troupe fade as we move closer to the distant wall, where shadows stretch long and deep, far from curious ears. Nyssa follows close behind, her sharp eyes scanning every corner, every movement, like a hawk ready to strike.
“I’m not great with blood,” Titaia finally says, her voice brittle as she waves off my concern with a flick of her fingers. Yet I notice the bandaged wound around her palm, its edges stained with crimson. With her free hand, she pulls a small velvet pouch from the folds of her gown and presses it into mine. The fabric is soft, almost fragile, and warm from where it rested against her.
“I thought you might need this—” she begins, but her voice falters, cracking like dried clay under pressure. My gaze shifts from the pouch to her face, catching the moment her eyes flick to Nyssa, wariness clouding her expression. When she finally meets my gaze again, I hold it, steady and unyielding. “I trust her with my life,” I say, the words firm and deliberate.
The rest remains unsaid, but it hangs in the air between us, heavy and undeniable.And with yours.
After a moment, Titaia nods, though her movements are reluctant. I untie the bag’s strings with care; the knot resists for just a moment before yielding under my fingers. Inside, a faint glimmer catches the cavern’s dim light. I reach in and pull out a vial, its glass smooth and cool against my skin. The liquid inside is dark red, almost black, thick like syrup.
Blood.Herblood.
The realization hits me hard, like a punch to the gut. No wonder she looks so pallid, her golden skin dull, her breaths shallow.
“That should be plenty to get you into the passage,” she murmurs. “You don’t need to use much—only if you need access and I’m not there with you.” She hesitates, her eyes darting around the cavern as if searching for unseen threats. The flickering light dances across her face, accentuating the tightness in her jaw, the strain around her eyes. “How are we—”
“Do you trust me?” I interrupt, the question cutting through her uncertainty like a blade.
Titaia freezes, startled. Her lips part, but no words come. Instead, she studies me, her gaze raking over my face as though searching for cracks in my resolve. Then, just like in the library, I see it—the flicker of resolve that ignites in her eyes, and the nod she gives me is small but deliberate.
“I’ve figured out a way to get Sphinx out,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. “It’s risky, and it’s better if you’re not involved.”
Titaia exhales slowly. “Just…promise me you’ll be careful.”
I offer her a reassuring smile, one I hope carries the confidence I don’t feel. Her shoulders soften, the tension melting away, but I can still see the lingering fear in the way her fingers twitch at her sides.
Yet the promise she asks for never leaves my lips. It lingers in the air, unspoken, as I clutch the pouch in my hand.
By the time Nyssa and I reach our chambers, the evening air clings heavy and cool against my skin, and I welcome it as a small mercy. Theheat of the rehearsal and tension of Titaia’s words cling to me like an unwanted second layer, and I strip out of the sweat-soaked fabrics as soon as the door to my bedroom room clicks shut behind me.
I hide the vial from Titaia in the back of my nightstand and then retreat into the bathing room. I sink into the warmth of the pool, the water rising to meet my shoulders, soothing the tang of salt on my skin and the ache simmering just beneath it. My muscles loosen as the heat seeps in, but it does little to ease the pressure tightening in my chest.
I stay submerged longer than I should; the water has wrinkled my skin by the time I finally sit up. Night has fallen, and the soft auras have come alive, their warm glow reflecting off the ripples. I grab a thick towel and wrap it around myself as I step out, the soft fabric pressing against my damp skin. I gather my hair, twisting it to squeeze out the excess water. Stepping into my bedroom, I stop, frozen in place.
Raven sits on my bed, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped, watching me with that unnervingly steady focus. His black tunic clings to his broad shoulders, and shadows play across the sharp lines of his face, amplifying his expression—quiet, unreadable.
“Do you make a habit of creeping into women’s rooms uninvited?” I ask, breaking the silence, though my pulse quickens with every second he doesn’t reply.
