I never went to the garden at dawn, never gave him the chance to explain. I was too afraid. Of him—and of what he might take from me. But more than that, I’m afraid of myself. Afraid that if he asks the right question or offers the right secret, I’ll trade pieces of myself for answers. Afraid that I’ll let him use me if it means learning what horrors are ahead. And that terrifies me more than any curse.
The image of him—storm-blue eyes, voice like velvet and sin—won’t leave me alone. It lingers like smoke, seeping beneath the door of every thought I try to lock it behind.
Torn, I pace between the window and the mirror, hating that I can still feel the echo of his touch on my waist, the ghost of his breath against my neck.
You fool,I scold myself.You were a heartbeat away from falling for a man who cages women like birds.
Marb seems to sense the storm inside me. Her wingbeats slow, and her expression softens. Then, with a tiny sigh, she vanishes into the closet in a blur of green light. When she returns, she’s holding a pale blue dress that shimmers faintly in the light but lacks the ruffles and gemstone crust of the first. The neckline dips in a quiet curve, modest and airy. The corset is looser thanthe others, cinched only with a few silver threads, and the skirt flows like water only down to the top of my boots, edged in delicate embroidery like trailing mist or crawling ivy.
I glare at it like it’s poisoned but tug it on. It’s better than nothing. “At least this one won’t crush my lungs,” I mutter.
“I told them you had better taste than the others,” Marb says, clearly pleased.
“Flattery will get her nowhere.” I huff. “And I want pants next time.”
She smirks. “We’ll see.”
The scent of cinnamon and citrus hangs heavy in the air as we gather for breakfast, the long oak table set with more silver than any of us has an appetite for. The bread is warm and the butter glossy, but the taste of dread sours everything.
Vivian snatches the last piece of honeyed bread before Seraphina can reach it. “Fastest hands in the West,” she says smugly.
Seraphina arches a brow, unimpressed. “You’ll need them, if we’re choosing weapons today.”
Cassy’s spoon clatters back into her bowl. “Weapons?” she squeaks. “We’re actually fighting?”
Mariel leans back in her chair, calm as ever. “Well, it’s called a Trial for a reason.”
Elena sighs, swirling her tea. “I heard the first one isn’t fatal. Usually.”
I glance up. “That’s comforting.”
A thin laugh makes its way around the table, the kind of laugh people make before something terrible happens.
More nervous than ever, Cassy drops her cup, spilling water across the table. Without a word, Vivian passes her a napkin. A solemn silence falls over us, a solidarity we dare not name.
The door opens, breaking us from our thoughts. Mae enters the dining hall and looks around at our dour expressions.
“Eat what you can,” she advises us grimly. “You’ll need your strength. Noctyras doesn’t take kindly to the unprepared.”
We exchange uneasy glances, and my stomach knots. Whatever waits below, it isn’t mere breakfast conjecture anymore.
Moments later, our mentors enter, Arther and Mae at the head, Cassian and Lyra trailing behind.
“Come,” Arther says, his voice echoing through the hall like a death knell.
One word—that’s all it takes for us to fall into line behind our mentors as we’re led from the hall.
The corridors between chambers feel longer now than they did an hour ago. The tapestries droop like wilting leaves, colors leached by shadow. Sometimes I think I hear voices behind the walls—whispers stitched into stone, too soft to quite catch, just barely evading our ears.
The last time I wandered these halls, I was lost. This time, Arther leads us with military precision.
“You’ve seen the keep’s beauty,” he says. “Now you’ll see its bones.”
The very air smells of iron as we descend steep stone steps into a darkened hallway and follow him through an archway that opens into a vast chamber. Dust veils rack after rack of ancient weapons, their hilts glinting in the half-light like sleeping serpents. The armory is cold, echoing with memories of steel and battle.
Once we’ve all filed in, Mae steps onto a low dais and explains, “The first Trial begins at sunset. You will each be permitted oneweapon. It is only to be used for self-defense, not against your fellow candidates. Take your time and choose wisely. If you lose your weapon, you will not be given another. The keep and time will decide if you are worthy to bear it.”
We shudder almost in unison. For a breath, no one speaks. The air feels alive, waiting. Outside, a faint bell tolls.
