My gaze sweeps around the room, and I can feel the blood draining from my face at the clear signs of magic abuse among the servants: graying hair, dull eyes, aging skin that clashes with their otherwise youthful appearances.
I force myself to stay calm, but my gaze drifts back to the girl pouring wine. Her hands are trembling so violently that the cup slips from her grip, crashing to the floor as wine splashes in every direction. Keres stares at her, eyes darkening with fury, and the girl quakes even more under his glare. No one moves to help her—none of the other servants dare risk provoking his anger.
None, except one.
Nyssa steps forward, quick and resolute, kneeling to assist the girl. But before she can act, Keres’s hand shoots out, his fingers closing around her wrist in a brutal grip. Her sharp gasp cuts through the tense silence, and the serving girl scrambles away, as though worried she’ll be next.
My heart trips, then roars forward, drowning out every sound except the soft creak of Keres’s grip tightening around Nyssa’s wrist. Her dark skin pales beneath his fingers, veins pulsing with an almost translucent fragility.
Everything else—the clamor of the room, the gasps, the spilled wine—fades into nothing. My focus narrows, razor-sharp, to that single point of contact: the prince’s venomous hand wrapped around Nyssa’s wrist.
There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt the shadow of a predator stirring within me—a part of myself capable of unspeakableacts hidden beneath the surface. It’s a dark, unsettling presence, one that I rarely acknowledge but cannot entirely ignore.
This is one of those moments.
“Prince Keres.” My voice carries an edge I barely recognize, even to myself. I sense the other contestants shifting at my tone, but I don’t waver. My gaze remains fixed, unfaltering. “I strongly suggest you release my handmaiden.”
For a moment, the tension in the room sharpens until it feels like the air itself could snap. But then, with maddening nonchalance, he releases Nyssa’s arm, his fingers unfurling as though her very presence bores him.
Nyssa stumbles back toward me, moving out of my line of sight. I don’t look at her yet—I can’t. My focus is entirely on him.
When I finally raise my eyes, our gazes collide. It’s like staring into a mirror made of storm clouds and shadow, dark and unyielding. There’s something familiar in the way his eyes narrow, weighing me, assessing me, as though he’s uncovered a secret I’ve worked hard to bury. It’s not fear I see in him—it’s curiosity. A predator meeting another, each quietly acknowledging what they see in the other. It raises the hair on the back of my neck but roots me to the spot.
Keres tilts his head, his fingers trailing through the wine spilled across the table, its deep red catching the light like fresh blood. He doesn’t speak at first, letting the thick silence coat the air like tar. Then, a smirk, soft but deadly, curls his lips once more. “You’re beginning to intrigue me, Princess.”
I don’t flinch, keeping my expression steady even as his low tone threads through my nerves like a bowstring pulled taut. “I’ve been told I’m quite predictable,” I reply, feigning a lightness I don’t feel. “I think I find that preferable.”
“Predictable bores me,” he says, his smirk twisting into a razor-sharp smile. “And in this world, boredom can be the sharpest weapon of all.” His gaze flicks once to Nyssa, then back to me. The implications in his tone hit harder than slashes.
With deliberate effort, I flash him a conspiratorial smile, as if this isnothing more than a clever game of cat and mouse. For Nyssa, I would risk everything—my reputation, my safety, even my life. And I am determined to beat him at his own game.
The dinner that follows is a careful dance of words and glances, every exchange shrouded in layers of hidden intent. The food, though exquisite, is secondary to the tension that lingers over the table. Keres dominates the conversation, his words polished and his laughter strategically placed, while the rest of us tread with caution, aware that one misstep could upend the fragile dynamic.
Nyssa remains silent behind me, and I don’t risk glancing at her lest I paint a bigger target on her back. Each clink of a glass or scrape of a fork feels amplified, the sharp sounds grating against my nerves. I grip my polite facade, my smile fixed in place, even as the relentless cacophony chips away at my composure.
I endure the struggle, holding back my words and emotions until the door to our chambers closes behind me, granting the privacy to finally let them surface.
And then I let go.
The soft hum of aharp drifts through the air, pristine and haunting, its melody threading a fragile spell over the grand hall. Below, Cynna perches on a low velvet stool at the center of the stage, her slender fingers gliding over the strings with the precision of a master. Her head is tilted just so, her usual icy expression now serene, as though she is more mythical being than mere mortal. Even her gown glows in the golden light of the stage, casting her as an otherworldly siren luring the audience to their doom.
I lean my elbows on the cool marble of the balcony railing, the columned shadows around me offering a hidden perch from which I can observe the spectacle below. The court, draped in their opulent finery, sit silently as Cynna performs for the trial. From my vantage point, I can’t see their faces, but I imagine they’re shaped by awe, or perhaps even envy. My own admiration for her skill mingles with unease. While I can admit she’s gifted, that doesn’t make her less dangerous or her ambitions less sharp-edged.
I take a steadying breath, trying to focus, to stay attuned to the shifting dynamics in the room below. But my thoughts keep drifting toward what lies beyond this performance, beyond the elegance and pageantry. A simple talent show is far too trivial compared to everything we’ve endured during the trials and in this court. I can’t shake the feeling that something far more sinister is lurking beneath the surface, waiting to reveal itself.
Perhaps watching the others perform has unsettled me. Zina’s voice is nothing short of divine. Lydia’s dance was at once artful and seductive. And Cynna? She somehow captivates and unnerves in equal measure. Four competitors remain, and this is the final trial. So, will Keres simply choose his favorite among us?
Cynna finishes her final notes with a flourish, and the applause rises in a crashing wave. I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat.
My time has come.
Pulling away from the railing of my hideout, I descend the stairs to the floor below. When I reach the shadows at the back of the hall, darkness shrouds the vast space; only the strings of auras hanging above the stage ahead of me provide light. Confusion mars the faces in the crowd as they glance around.
Wondering. Waiting.
At the side of the stage, Pan raises his head; his eyes lock with mine, elegant fingers poised over the strings of the lyre cradled in his lap. Nyssa, Titaia, and Eleni stand beside him, all wearing expressions of encouragement and pride as they gaze back at me. I steel my spine with their faith in me and lift my chin, watching a wicked grin take over Pan’s face as he begins to play.
The first note rings with the clarity of a bell, sounding through the hall and silencing the murmurs of the crowd. As the song builds, I step in time with its melody, letting the music soak into my skin and guide me.
