In the end, no amount of courage was enough to save her.
A shudder tears through me as I look at Mael. I will lose everything, including my power to change this evil system, unless I trade one cage for another. My throat is raw, my body cold. I don’t want this.
But I don’t want Rust Hollow more. Acknowledging that cowardice, that surrender to the easier path, sets shame clawing up my throat.
Mael says nothing. Just watches me. Waiting.
A broken laugh hitches in my throat. Because that’s exactly what this is. A surrender.
I drop my gaze, and nod.
Ipace my rooms as muted morning light creeps across the floor, bringing with it the weight of choices already set in motion. For the last five days I’ve been confined here, hidden under the guise of severe distress over the Archpriest’s demise.
Eva convinced Ryker to let her former duenna take up Eleanor’s post—a plump, elderly woman so fond of her little Evie that she stations herself outside my doors and refrains from prying too deeply into the secrecy surrounding me. I’ve heard nothing of Eleanor’s fate, but I suspect Ryker has already dealt with her for failing to protect me.
A pang of pity pricks at me. I never cared for her, but she was unwavering in her duty. And now my mess is spilling over, staining the lives of others. The thought fractures my already battered heart a little more.
During these five days, my rooms have become both sanctuary and tormentor. Their walls cradle me and cage me in equal measure. The uncertainty and the endless dragging of time within the same suffocating space has grown unbearable. By the fifth day, I’m unraveling.
One question refuses to leave me. It ricochets through my skull as I rub my newly gloved fingers together, louder each time it returns.
What have I done?
It roars through my mind, an unrelenting scream I cannot silence. My world has shrunk to this room, to the confines of silk gloves and a hidden strand, to the inevitable moment when I will have to leave the safety of these walls and step into the unknown.
I should feel relieved that I have a way forward, that I am not being dragged to Rust Hollow on Zyrel’s leash. Yet relief is the one thing I cannot seem to grasp.
All I feel is dread.
“Sit,” Eva commands, her voice brisk as she gestures to the vanity.
I obey, sinking into the seat as she looms behind me, fingers deftly sorting through my hair. “We need to hide that strand. If anyone sees it?—”
“I know.” My voice is tight, betraying the tension whirling within me. “It’s the end. My end,” I add in a whisper.
Eva nods, her hands moving swiftly. She reaches for the collection of hair rings and jeweled decor she left to gather from her chambers, carefully weaving the adornments into my hair.
“Once the Champions are named,” she says, “the first Challenge will begin immediately.” She gestures toward the stone-framed mirror mounted high on the wall of my receiving chamber, visible through the open doors to the bathing room and bedroom.
It is but one among the countless thousands that cover the kingdom, hanging in every household and hall, lining the main streets, and gleaming even within the temples. “Everyone will be glued to the Divinity Gazes’ glass until the Challenge ends. There will be no better—or any other—time to do it.”
I nod. The Sphere will stir the mirrors to life, casting the Challenges into every corner of the realm for all to witness. They will remain active until the final challenge concludes, then fall silent again.
“Everyone will be too busy watching blood spill to notice where the two of you have gone. If everything goes to plan, and it will,” she adds, giving my hand another squeeze, “you’ll both return before anyone starts asking questions.” She meets my eyes. “We’ll deal with the gossip together. Okay?”
Since we never secured my father’s permission, my betrothal to Ryker was never formally announced. Ryker had planned to announce the wedding himself, closer to the date. People, of course, whispered about it, but nothing was ever official. In the end, that choice may have spared us the embarrassment of having to publicly end it.
I force my dry lips into something like a smile. No scandal. No discovery. No turning back.
“There,” Eva says, stepping back to examine her work. “No one will notice, not unless they’re looking for it.”
I meet Eva’s gaze in the mirror, my throat tight with emotion. Each delicate piece is arranged to obscure the red strand, the glinting metal and artful loops acting as a shield against prying eyes.
The result is a masterpiece. A cascade of white waves, entwined with jewels and golden hair rings. Regal enough to draw every eye, intricate enough to distract from the truth buried beneath.
Her black hair is styled like mine, adorned with dozens of gold rings. But one stands out—a tiny, simple silver band. Inside, two names are etched: Eva and Archer. Her husband carved them there himself on the night of their wedding. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without it.
A quiet part of me is relieved that at least one of us has known a love like that, when something so small, so seemingly insignificant, can mean everything.
