Movement from the audience halts his speech. My breath snags as I watch Keres rise from his chair, his gilt-dusted cloak swirling around his boots as he steps forward through the shifting shadows cast by the aura-light.
Keres climbs the steps and strides toward the front of the stage, and the unease I’d forced to quiet roars back to life.
“Have you all been entertained tonight?” His voice drips with charm, but there’s something about it that has my hackles rising. A razor-thin layer of discontent beneath the silk.
The room hesitates, too stunned—or too cautious—to answer. The delicate silence stretches.
Keres turns, offering the audience a smile gilded in disdain. “I am not entertained.”
The words slither across the hall like an asp coiling around prey. My pulse pounds, loud enough to make the silence deafening.
“There are talents required of my future queen beyond mere spectacle,” Keres continues, his gaze sweeping the competitors, scorching and unrelenting. He stops on me for a beat longer than the others, and I feel my spine stiffen under the weight of his scrutiny.
“Grace, intellect, performance.” He takes a slow step forward, each movement calculated. “Yes, they displayed these well. But what of cunning? What of fortitude? My queen must possess as much strength as beauty.”
The crowd shifts, their discomfort an undercurrent I can almost feel on my skin.
Keres claps his hands once, the sound echoing through the grand hall like a hammer driving a nail through the room’s tense silence. Beneath our feet, a hidden mechanism whirs—soft at first, then clicking louder into place.
The stage trembles. My heart leaps into my throat as four blades rise from the stage floor, emerging from nearly invisible compartments hidden in the wood. Each dagger gleams wickedly, their sharp edges catching the sparse light.
My blood turns to ice as Keres announces, his voice silky smooth, “A final test, then. A battle of wills and survival. You will fight until only two remain standing.” He lingers on the wordstanding,the threat of it hanging in the air like thunderclouds heralding a storm.
Time warps as my mind processes the shift from an elegant performance to this sudden, deadly trial.
Can I do this? Could I take the lives of these women just to ensure my survival?
No. Not for myself.
My gaze locks with Nyssa’s, where she still stands beside Titaia and the two nymphai, and my resolve hardens.
Taking a life in self-defense—out of necessity—is one thing. But to sever the life of an innocent for anything less? That is a barrier I have never been able to break.
And yet, for her—for Nyssa—I would shatter every barrier. I would do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
No matter how deeply it carves into me.
“On my word.” Keres’s voice echoes, both distant and near, as my attention locks onto the dagger closest to me. “Begin.”
Chaos erupts on the stage,and I lunge for the dagger.
The hilt is cruelly cold beneath my fingers, its unfamiliar weight thrumming as if alive. It runs in stark contrast to the heat rising in me—a battle of instinct versus all the skills I have honed.
I spring to my feet and whirl around. The stage feels smaller, fractured into sharp fragments of movement and noise. Lydia’s voice cuts through the chaos as she surges toward Zina, their blades meeting in a clash that sends sparks dancing in the unsteady light. Their fight is raw, all sharp movements and desperate lunges that tell me nothing has prepared them for this, but I can’t focus too long on them.
Cynna moves in front of me, her dagger flipping effortlessly in her hand as she circles. Her movements are fluid, calculated—a predator’s glide. I match her pace, feet light on the trembling wood, watching her. Assessing.
She’s deliberate in every motion, her balance impeccable. The dagger in her grasp isn’t just familiar—it’s an extension of her. This is not someone who’s wielding desperation. Cynna fights like she’s writing poetry in blood and steel, each movement a line meant to ensnare.
When my eyes meet hers, something cold and cutting lurks behind her icy stare. It’s a mirrored reflection of my own gaze, though hungrier, as though she’s dissecting every choice my body might make. Calculating. Testing.
She narrows her eyes and lets the dagger roll in her palm, finally catching it so that the blade curves toward her elbow. My pulse spikes.
If I am a Songbird, then what, in the name of the Anemoi, is she?
Cynna lunges forward, testing my reaction. I sway out of range, and her dagger flashes in the light before she pulls back. Her lips curve into a smirk, regal and mocking. “I wasn’t aware the Acolytes’ teachings also included how to wield a weapon.”
My steps slow, just enough to narrow the invisible orbit we’re circling. “No? Well, the education was very thorough,” I counter, my voice edged just enough to keep her guessing. To keep her talking while I come to terms with what must be done.
