By the time we reached the wing’s dining room, my stomach was a twisted knot.
The room was washed in morning light, bright and golden, almost cruel in its cheer. Frescoes covered the walls, fields of grain rippling in the breeze, constellations stitched into red night skies, lions forever caught mid-roar.
Every head turned as I stepped inside.
The silence hit like a sudden drop in wind, and I felt the weight of it press against my skin as I stepped farther into the room.
The girls were scattered in loose clusters across the floor, some lounging on cushions with their ankles tucked beneath them, others perched upright like they’d been waiting for just this moment. Their faces were scrubbed and gleaming, and I caught the scent of blossoms in the air, mingling with something else … like anticipation and fear wrapped in perfume.
One girl in the center had lips painted the color of crushed cherries and hair coiled into a crown of thick braids, each twist gleaming with oil. Her gaze swept over me with the cool indifference of someone used to being the most important person in the room. Beside her, another girl, tall and pale, her jaw angular and proud, wore gold rings on every finger and chewed a fig idly. A third, younger, with a round face and ice-blonde curls that caught the light, looked startled by the silence she was suddenly part of, her cup trembling slightly in her hands.
Near the window, a narrow-eyed girl with a perfect nose and a single long braid down her back didn’t even try to mask her disdain. She glared openly, jaw clenched, crushing her half-eaten maza in one hand as if imagining it was me.
They all stared.
I crossed the room with deliberate slowness, pretending I didn’t notice their whispers.
“Psst! Helena!”
I glanced around for the familiar voice.
“Over here,” the whisper came again, louder this time, and coaxing.
At last I found her, a girl with hair the color of burnished copper, waving at me from a table up ahead. Her braid slung neatly over one shoulder, and a jeweled belt wrapped snug at her waist. As her hand lowered and her eyes met mine, she smiled, an easy, real thing that settled something anxious in my chest.
I moved toward her.
She patted the cushion beside her. “It’s me, Anysa. Pie destroyer. Terrible singer. Maybe future queen … assuming I don’t trip and knock over an altar.”
The laugh that slipped from me was small, barely a breath, but it was real.
“Just ignore me if I talk too much. It’s a compulsive thing that’s going to continue with how nervous I am. I’ll talk until someone shoves a lemon in my mouth.”
I blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”
She winked. “So are wounds.”
A servant appeared beside us and poured watered wine into our cups. I barely noticed. My eyes were fixed on the table, on the grapes, the roasted lamb glistening with fat, the olives heaped in silver bowls like they grew in abundance, and the soft, white cheese speckled with herbs.
A feast.
My jaw locked.
Back home, they would’ve stared at this like it was a myth. A dream. Grain was never guaranteed these days, and here they were serving enough to feed a village twice over. Two days in a row. My hands curled into fists beneath the table.
It wasn’t right.
The palace dripped in excess, every corner of it whispering waste, while the rest of Sparta bled and begged and buried their dead in soil too dry to grow anything.
I took the cup anyway, lifted it to my lips. Let it taste sour. Let it sting. If I was going to survive this place, I needed to stop flinching at its cruelty and start learning how to use it.
Even though I was starving, I had to force the food past my lips, but Anysa didn’t have that problem, enjoying figs and olives, boiled eggs laced with herbs I couldn’t name, all while talking almost continuously. Just like last night, the effect of her continuous chatter was soothing, helping me control the tension in my shoulders.
“What do you think they’ll have us do today?” I asked when I could finally get a word in.
Anysa wrinkled her nose like she’d just bitten into something spoiled. “Honestly? It’s not the Trials I’m worried about. It’s the queen training.” Her voicelowered dramatically. “Do you know how many spoons there are? Apparently, there’s a fish spoon, a soup spoon, a honey spoon, and some kind of cursed demonic spoon with holes in it that’s just for olives. Olives, Helena!”
I blinked.
