I instinctively set my hand against the much older scar on my torso. The one that’s been there as far back as I can remember. That I have no memory of getting. I shake away the thought and try to focus on what matters now. Jordi is alive.
But I can’t ignore the black stains on my hands, or that I'm lying in the Veritas healing chamber wearing a gray shift dress that isn't mine, smelling of the floral soap the Veritas Order makes. Someone brought me here. Someone undressed me. Someone saw.
Goddess strike me.The Sages. There’s no way they don’t know about this. I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing the world to disappear. I can be banished for this.
Expelling a breath, I open my eyes again. The pendulum clock on the far wall reads five o'clock, but through the small window near the ceiling, the sky is nothing but thick gray clouds. It could be dawn. It could be dusk. In Lunaris, it's impossible to tell.
It doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here before someone comes. Swinging my legs over the hammock takes more effort than it should, but I manage to plant my feet on the ground without triggering the bells hooked to the ropes.
My eyes land on the pair of cloth maroon slippers with the gold Veritas signet embroidered on them and the folded pieces of paper beneath them. I grab everything and tiptoe toward the back of the chamber.
The mosaic map of Lunaris sprawls across the back wall — ancient tiles worn smooth by centuries of secrets. My eyessnag on the onyx temple in the upper corner. The object of my brother's obsession. My chest tightens.
I can't think about Jordi right now. I can't think about any of it. I press down on the temple. Wait for the click. Slip inside the wall. Darkness swallows me.
Veritas isn't as ancient as Lunaris or its labyrinth of tunnels, but the Sages built it with the same bones. The same secrets. Passages that snake through the buildings like veins, hidden from the eyes of anyone who doesn't know where to look.
I stand in the darkness for a moment before I summon a small fire in my palm. It sparks to life immediately thanks to the warmth of the hot stones that hum beneath my skin. The flame casts long shadows against the narrow area as I reach for the latch that leads into the hall. I close my fist around the fire as I step into the dim orange glow and start walking.
Voices bleed through the stone. I freeze, heart climbing into my throat as I press against the wall and squint into the peephole beside the next latch. The domed rotunda yawns open below me. At its center, flames lick the edges of a stone pit — a replica of the Undying Flame that burns in the healing chamber I just left.
The curved seats are nearly full. A sea of maroons and dark grays and golds, Moon Festival finery catching the firelight like scattered jewels. I search the crowd for familiar faces, for Naima or Margot, but before I can find them, the chatter in the room stops.
My gaze snaps to the top of the chamber. Freida the Hunter steps into the firelight first. Veritas armor clings to her towering frame — maroon cloth draped over leather and iron plates. Her fiery red hair is wound into two thick braids pinned behind her elegant, pointed ears. She surveys the room the way a predator surveys a field of prey.
Anala the All-Seeing glides in behind her. Her maroon gown flows like dark water, gold flowers embroidered across the fabric catching the light with every step. Her thick dark hair crowns her head in an intricate braid, and her eyes sweep the room as if she can see through every wall. Every secret. Every lie. I barely breathe as I watch Mother appear.
She’s wearing a dark green gown. The Council’s colors. She wears a variation of these gowns every time she meets with them, which is more often than not these last few years. Gold armor caps her shoulders in the shape of wings, but unlike the legion's ceremonial flourishes, hers taper into razor-sharp points.
The kind that could impale with a careless turn. Her corset is forged from the same gilded metal, cinching her waist before giving way to a skirt that pools like spilled ink across the stone floor. The Sages taught us that to understand the world, you must understand power. How it moves. How it breathes. How it makes people kneel without ever asking them to.
Anala doesn't need her gift of foresight to make everyone in this room second-guess their own thoughts. Freida doesn't need her stature or her shrewd, warrior’s eyes to make them wither. And Mother doesn't need her sharp tongue.
They certainly don't need theatrics to remind everyone that they're in charge, but they use it anyway. They use everything from their posture —shoulders back, chins held high— to where they stand in a room, underneath lights that help accentuate their sharp cheekbones and arched ears. The Council does the same, of course, but they hide behind propaganda and carefully constructed lies.
The Sages don't hide. They take every awful thing that’s ever been said about them and use that as well. They wield weapons out of the narratives meant to destroy them.
“I'll get right to it.” Mother's voice cuts through the silence. “This year's Veritas Ceremony will be postponed until further notice.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber. Whispers rise like smoke.
“I also want to address the legion guards some of you have seen near our borders.” She pauses, letting the dread settle. “They will not set foot inside Veritas. The treaty stands. They will remain in their territory.”
Another wave of whispers. Mother silences it with a look.
“Yes, Tilda?”
“Any news on Ada and Jordan?” she asks, “Are they still recovering?”
“They are both perfectly fine.”
“Then why is Jordi at the Hall of Reflection instead of the Whispering Ponds?”
I go still. The Hall of Reflection is run by Veritas healers, but it’s primarily for the Council’s guard and the duelers. Veritas residents always go to the Ponds.
“Jordan doesn't require the Whispering Ponds,” Mother says smoothly. “He's resting at the Hall alongside a few others recovering from minor injuries.”
Minor injuries. I exhale a relieved breath.
