Chapter Fifteen
The doors to the banquet hall creak open, and the room sprawls out before us. It expands in grand proportions, wide and towering, with ivory curtains draped elegantly across floor-to-ceiling windows. Ornate pillars line the walls, wrapped with garlands of delicate red and yellow flowers, and the marble floor gleams beneath us.
The ceiling feels miles above. Hazy pastels trace out continents, oceans and distant lands – a map of the Triumstellar Accord.
Astraloria sits to the north, the largest of the principalities, with a smaller Wrisha clinging to its southern edge. To the southwest, the Three Point Sea cradles Solara, and beyond the borders, the map fades, as if the world outside barely exists.
It feels that way, sometimes. But I know of distant places, watching us from those uncharted edges. Kingdomsof alchemy and rare metals, the Shattered Realms and their pirate fleets and frozen lands where whispers speak of ice and blood magic.
I take in the rest of the banquet hall. In the middle of the room is a long table arranged with candelabras. I can see name cards, one for each of the forty-eight competitors. A few smaller circular tables hug the edges of the room, swathed with golden tablecloths.
At the far end, on a raised platform, sits the grandest table of them all, lording over all the others. It’s the royal table, reserved for the rulers of the principalities and their families. A few of them have already claimed their thrones and sit silently, surveying us as we shuffle through the doors.
High Prince Seraphius of Astraloria holds court in the centre of the royal table, a rather bulky man with a red face who radiates good cheer. To his left sits High Princess Seleneira of Wrisha, a vision of copper skin and silky black hair, and, to his right, High Prince Hevio of Solara is shooting a piercing stare at the crowd.
Taron and I make our way across the room, scanning the competitors’ table until we spot the name cards markedMaeve SpeckandWren Hull.
I take my seat, moving forward slightly as competitors shuffle past in search of their name cards. There’s a squeal at the end of the table, where a pair of girls wearing matching butter-yellow headscarves are celebrating being seated next to Cyrus.
They fawn over his name card, ridiculously bickeringover who gets to speak to him first when he gets here. The commotion draws probing stares from the surrounding competitors – a loved-up couple holding hands, a pair dressed in flamboyant outfits of dyed feathers, and a petite brunette nervously rolling her thumbs, barely listening to the ramblings of her greasy-haired teammate beside her.
“Oh, hey,” Kara chirps as she and Savannah sit down opposite us. “Looks like we’re stuck together.”
What are the odds…I smile as best I can, but, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Taron doesn’t even look up.
“Isn’t this place something else?” says Kara, still intent on making friendly conversation. Her eyes wander upward, marvelling at the over-the-top intricacies of the map on the ceiling first, then shifting to the fine crockery and silverware before her.
“Watch out, folks,” Savannah sing-songs, “if you touch the wrong fork, they might just execute you on the spot.”
Someone laughs at the comment as they sit down beside her. A tall, androgynous person with crimson waves that match the fiery colour of their bedazzled blazer.
“Good one,” they say. “Not that I was eavesdropping.”
“Lying already? Shame on you,” says the guy next to them, with near-identical red hair and freckles. “I’m Gunther, and this is my twin, Gigi. To clarify, they weremost definitelyeavesdropping.”
Gigi rolls their eyes. “Anyway … I’m so ready for this banquet. How long do you think we’ll have to wait for the food to come out?”
Taking a cue from Gigi, I drape my serviette across my lap, hoping my lack of table etiquette doesn’t make me stick out like a sore thumb. A glance at Taron reveals his serviette in a crumpled heap beside his plate – the horror.
I jab him with my elbow, hoping for some semblance of conformity, but he responds with an eye roll.Real mature.
“Hi there, I don’t think we’ve met,” Kara remarks, extending a hand past Savannah to the twins.
Gigi lunges forward to shake her hand, almost sending a candelabra on a nosedive, but Savannah quickly intercepts it.
“Whoops, my bad,” Gigi says with a chuckle. “You must be Kara DeLange. Word on the street is you’re the one to beat.”
Kara’s artificial laughter rings through the air. The two engage in a handshake. “I don’t know about that,” she says. “But we’ll see, I guess.”
As Gigi pulls their hand back, the candelabra takes another tumble and this time falls on to the tablecloth.
For a second, it looks like the cloth might go up in flames, but Gigi calmly waves their hand and the flames are instantly snuffed out, leaving behind only a singed black spot.
“Nobody saw that, right?” Gigi asks, eyes gleaming like coals.
“Saw what?” Gunther moves some of the flower arrangements to camouflage the damage. “There. It’s like nothing ever happened.”
I smile along with the rest of the table, but Taron’s face is carved from stone. He shifts uncomfortably beside me, then I realize another couple has claimed their seats on the other side of him.
