Of all the competitors, why does it have to be her?
If she’d given me a choice, I would’ve gone for Lydia or Zina—picked off one of the weaker pair. But she didn’t. And I think we both know who the real threats on this stage are.
I’ve already caught the flaws, the slight tension in her off hand—the arm that isn’t holding the dagger. Cynna moves as though untouchable, but no one is flawless.
From the corner of my eye, a blur of clumsy movement pulls my attention for half a second. Lydia and Zina are still grappling, their fight messy and chaotic. Zina shoves Lydia toward the edge of the stage, her wild swing missing by inches as she screams something I can’t make out over the pounding in my ears.
I feel the shift before Cynna strikes again, her dagger arcing in a low slice meant to catch my thigh. I spin away from her, my blade striking out and slicing across her arm.
“You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you, Aella?” Cynna says, her smile sharpening as she grips her arm. She pulls her hand away from the cut, and her fingers come away coated in blood. “But so have I. And I need this more than you could ever imagine.”
Cynna lunges again, her movements fast and calculated, but I sidestep, my blade catching her side in a shallow cut. She hisses through her teeth, retaliating with a feint that I barely dodge. Her dagger grazes my shoulder, drawing blood and stinging hot against the cold air. Wecircle each other, each strike and counterstrike growing fiercer. My blade finds its mark on her thigh, slowing her, but not before she slashes across my forearm, leaving the skin burning. The clash of steel fills the air, and though we both land blows, neither of us relents. Blood stains the ground between us, a testament to the injuries we trade.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Cynna says smoothly, her voice carrying over the din with almost a bored tone. She slices another careening arc, forcing me into a pivot to avoid her dagger. “But I’ll be the last one standing.”
The word resonates in my mind, ringing with sudden clarity as an idea takes shape.
Standing.
I pause for half a beat too long, letting my breath hitch as though caught unprepared. Cynna smirks, sensing advantage, and presses forward, her blade poised for another strike.
It’s a mistake.
I angle my body lower, catching the edge of my dagger against the heel of her slipper with a quick arc. The motion isn’t meant to wound—it’s designed to rob her of balance. Her triumphant lunge turns into a stagger as her ankle twists, and she crumples forward.
A sharp exhale escapes her, triumph replaced with a flurry of shock as I raise my foot and shove her backward onto the stage floor with calculated force.
Cynna hits the polished wood with a thud, her head cracking against one of the dagger’s dormant attachment mechanisms. Her blade skitters away, spinning to rest just out of her reach, though I can see her movements still twitching with defiance and rage.
I climb over her, cradling her face in my hands. Her piercing ice-blue eyes lock on to mine, and her brow furrows with confusion. I offer her a grim smile. “I’m sorry, but I need this more.” I slam her head down, the resounding crack echoing in my own. Her eyes roll back before fluttering closed as unconsciousness takes hold.
I linger for a moment, my eyes locked on her face as my breath quickens, and a tremor runs through my limbs. I haven’t used enoughforce to cause serious harm—just enough to guarantee she won’t be able to get back on her feet tonight.
Lydia’s cry cuts through the air, raw and guttural.
My gaze flickers back to the chaos across the stage just as her blade flashes downward in a clean, unforgiving arc.
Zina doesn’t scream. Her body jerks, then collapses against the glossy floor, a bloom of red spilling beneath her crumpled form. Lydia’s shoulders are heaving as her blade clatters from shaking fingers.
It feels as though all the air has been sucked from the room. Even the court, with all their grandeur and pomp, seem unsure of how to breathe after what they’ve just witnessed. My chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven beats as I stare at Zina’s crumpled form. Blood pools beneath her, dark and spreading, as though trying to claim the stage itself. I swallow hard, my mouth dry as ash.
Lydia stands over her, trembling. Her blade lies abandoned on the floor, its sharp edges gleaming with fresh guilt. Her shoulders quake with every shuddering breath, but she doesn’t look down. Her eyes, wide and unmoored, stare beyond Zina—a thousand leagues away.
I force myself to stand, my blade weighted in my hand, heavier than before. The scent of sweat and blood clogs the air, and I glance down at Cynna. She lies unconscious at my feet, her body sprawled but still breathing, the rise and fall of her chest almost too faint to catch. The silver hair that was once perfectly in place now spills wildly across the stained wood. But her face is calm—still and dreamlike in a way that unnerves me.
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Every breath I draw feels thick, like I’m inhaling tension itself. My eyes flicker to the crowd. Their polished masks of intrigue have broken, replaced by something more raw—fear, perhaps? Or morbid curiosity? It’s impossible to tell.
And then there’s Keres.
His eyes are locked on Cynna for an infinite measure of time until they drag up to meet mine. My fingers tighten around the dagger’s hilt, and he smiles—slight, sharp, and terrible. He nods, and Master Cyril steps back onto the stage and addresses the audience once again.
I don’t hear the words. Not until the very last moment do they penetrate through the storm of fear and fury clouding my mind.
“—the prince will announce his decision the night following tomorrow’s masked ball.”
His words linger as the court stirs with hushed whispers and shifting silks. The Master of Ceremonies motions sharply, and guards flood the stage, collecting Cynna’s limp form and removing Zina’s lifeless body like discarded props from Keres’s twisted performance.
I use the chaos to climb down from the stage and push through the bodies toward the place I last saw my friends standing. As the crowd clears, I find Nyssa, Titaia, Pan, and Eleni already making their way toward me, each of their faces grimmer than the last.
