When I’m almost to the stage, Keres turns in his seat, his eyes piercing me like an arrow, and I can’t help but feel a sense of apprehension.
A moment of self-doubt.
I’m not afraid to admit to myself that watching the others perform and show off their chosen talents set me on edge. I know the performance I’m about to give is a risk, but I needed something that would make me stand out. Joining the Aviary at a young age hadn’t meant the skills I was developing under royal tutelage fell by the wayside. I can sing and play musical instruments as well as the next court lady. Those skills are as important as spycraft for a Songbird.
However, in a trial where those talents would already be on display by other competitors, I needed to work with my other strengths.
The past several years have given me exceptional balance, agility, and control over my body. My masters also allowed me to continue my dance lessons, and muscle memory and awareness went a long way in my private lessons with Eleni and Pan.
Thoughts flash through my mind like shooting stars as I continue to float through the audience, keeping my gaze on the stage ahead, even as more faces turn at my approach.
The fabric of my inky black gown hisses against the marble floor, parting with each step to reveal my legs. The dress is a southern style, something people at home wouldn’t blink an eye at, but here it will be considered a bit more scandalous. But I added a subtle touch of modesty by borrowing what Eleni calledstay-upsfrom her. The sheer, glittering fabric, studded with tiny gems, covers my legs, growing opaque as it climbs my thighs.
I take a fortifying breath as I finally reach the stage and climb the steps, the glossy wood cool and smooth beneath my bare feet. I make my way to the draping layers of silk waiting for me. The fabric gleams in the dim light, shifting from pale gold to deep bronze, calling to me like a siren’s song.
When I first approached Eleni and Pan, I hadn’t thought I would enjoy it so much. But once I was in the air during our practice sessions, something fell into place.
A feeling of rightness.Of home.
As Pan’s song reaches my cue, I wrap my hands around the fabric, feeling the strength of the silk beneath my fingertips. With a flick of my wrist, I launch myself into the air, my body spinning and twirling as I climb higher and higher.
Silk and air wrap around me like a second skin, sliding over my arms and legs as I move through my routine. The gasps from below become part of the performance’s melody, a discordant yet thrilling undercurrent to the symphony I enact above. And for a fleeting span, within the confines of the silk, the audience below fades as the music swells, and I fall into the now-familiar rhythm. I let it flow through my veins, spilling out of me as I lose myself to the thrill.
For a moment, I amfree.
Free from the weight of my responsibilities.
Free from the expectations placed on me.
There are only the silks and the music, guiding me through graceful loops and spins. The Empyrieos fades away, replaced by a world of my creation.
The silk, my partner in this aerial dance, cascades from the high ceiling, a waterfall of shimmering fabric that entwines with my form. Each climb, each twist and suspended pirouette, is a silent conversation between body and silken thread. Golden strands encircle my wrists, drawing patterns in the air as I spin, the world below blurring into an indistinct palette of colors and faces. I am both puppeteer and puppet within these wraps, commanding and yielding to the dance’s whims.
All too soon, the music slows, and I match its pace, feeling the melody guiding my movements as my body twists and glides toward its graceful descent. My chest rises and falls with controlled breaths as my feet alight on the stage, and I lower into a curtsy as the final note rings out, humming through the otherwise silent hall.
I raise my head, my eyes finding Keres, seated beside his waning parents, who have once again appeared for the final trial.
Keres watches me, unblinking, leaning forward in his seat. His face is an unreadable mask, but the heat in his gaze is unmistakable.
An air of anticipation fills the grand hall, as if time itself has been momentarily frozen, and I straighten, holding my breath along with the rest of the gathered court. The flickering aura-light casts dancing shadows on the ornate tapestries adorning the walls, while the indistinct murmur of hushed conversations creates an atmosphere of tense energy that infiltrates my body. Everyone is waiting for someone else to break the ice that holds the crowd suspended in a frozen state, their eyes darting around in search of the first sign of movement or sound to shatter the stillness.
I blink in surprise when it comes from the person I am least expecting.
Queen Atalana rises from her seat and claps, a tearful expression on her face. I can’t help but wonder how my performance resonated with her. Did she sense the freedom I felt at that moment? Did it awaken a desire in her to experience the same? Whatever the reason, the soundechoes through the hall, a catalyst of an avalanche, and one by one, the others join in. A rush of pride courses through me, although this is all for show. A pretty distraction to disguise perfidious intent. My eyes drop to the floor as I dip into another short curtsy. When I rise, the applause fades into murmurs as Master Cyril steps onto the stage.
“An exceptional collection of artistry,” Master Cyril says, his deep voice filling the space with practiced ease. “Competitors, if you will join us back on the stage.”
My pulse steadies as I remain in place. The shuffle of the other contestants fills the air behind me, their steps a mismatched rhythm against the polished wood. Cynna’s sharp silhouette slices into my peripheral as she strides to my side.
The applause still lingering in my ears sours as I catch the faint frown etched between Cynna’s sculpted brows. She leans close, just enough for her whisper to slide between us without being caught by the audience. “That was impressive. You look quite…comfortable in the air,” she murmurs, her voice like frosted velvet—smooth, yet edged with a chilling sharpness.
The words are innocuous, but the weight they carry lands with precision. A flicker of warning ripples through me as I twist the ring on my finger. It appears the tentative alliance we had formed has come to an end.
Forcing the tension from my shoulders, I give her a thin smile. “Practice makes perfect.”
Her lips curve into a semblance of a smile, but her eyes remain calculating as she turns away, leaving me stranded in the spiraling current of my thoughts.
Master Cyril’s booming voice pulls me back, his hands raised to beckon the audience’s attention once more. “Congratulations, all of you, for offering such a captivating display of brilliance. A testament to your talent and worthiness to—”
