“Is it time to speak them aloud?” Nessa asks.
“Yes, whenever you’re ready.”
She straightens her back, rolls her shoulders like she’s stepping onto a stage, and declares, clear and sure, “I am worthy of being seen.”
“I am chosen,” Romy says, chin tugged higher by invisible thread.
“I perform without fear,” another girl murmurs, fingers clutching her parchment.
“I am a glorious warrior!” Tarek bellows, pounding his chest for emphasis.
From the back of the class, Dav throws up his hands and mutters something unfit for young ladies’ ears.
Declan laughs, claps Tarek on the back, and says, “Yeah you are, buddy.”
We move from affirmations to scripting, where I teach them how to describe what they want out of life so they can work on manifesting that reality. Before I know it, an hour has passed. The class winds down in a flurry of parchment scraps, charcoal dust, and squealing voices. The girls compare lines, trade compliments, and recite drafted manifestation scripts to each other with the urgency of people convinced they’ve just discovered the secrets of the universe.
I bask in it. In them. Their energy is giddy, golden, infectious. They hang on every word I say, their eyes wide as if I’m Prometheus and have handed them fire. I’m so damn proud of myself and of them I could burst.
I wave as the last cluster of girls drifts away from the market square, their laughter trailing behind them like ribbons. Nessa lingers, shifting from foot to foot, her bangles clinking softly in the quiet.
“Is everything all right, Nessa?”
“You’ve already taught me more than I dared hope for,” she says quickly.
“But…?” I prompt.
She lifts her chin. “But I think I want more than some of the others.”
My brows rise. “More?”
“I want to be part of the queens’ court,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I can feel I’m meant for it. Perhaps I could even stand where the Player does now. Or make a place of my own beside the queens.” Her crystalline blue eyes gleam, already seeing herself on that smoke-wreathed dais. “Can what you’re teaching me lead there?”
I draw in a slow breath. “How do the queens choose their court? Tarek told me a little, but it’sdifferentfrom anything I’m used to.”
Nessa nods. “Oh, yes. Each kingdom within Towerfall is quite different from the next. Here, there are seasons when petitions are heard—solstices, equinoxes. The Player sponsors performers. The guards sponsor those fit to rise within their ranks. The queens themselves sometimes choose from the floor, though rarely. Still…” Her voice tightens, determination lacing every word. “They cannot pass me by if I am exactly what they seek.”
She reminds me of me at sixteen—desperate for more, for someone to see me, to choose me. Back then, I believed if I could just be perfect enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, accommodating enough, someone would finally decide I was worth keeping. I wish I had my rose quartz palm stone now, something cool and smooth to press against my heart, to remind me that these roiling feelings clawing their way up are just energy that needsredirecting. That I can alchemize ache into purpose if I just breathe and believe hard enough.
“If I am perfect,” she continues, “they will have no choice but to choose me.”
Perfect.That cursed word. The one that drove me to crash diets and spending money I didn’t have. The word that dangled a carrot in front of me my whole life and left me starving for approval.
“There was a business course I took that called it ‘building a pillar,’” I tell her, smoothing confidence over my voice. “With your goal, your pillar would be one bold transformation that no one can ignore. What’s your work-in-progress?”
“I’ve been working with the fire dancers. Not simply twirling torches or juggling flames—that’s child’s play. I’m learning to take the flame into myself. To eat it.” She lifts onto her toes. “If I can swallow fire and breathe it back out for the queens, they’ll see I’m not like the rest. They’ll see I’m fearless. And fearlessness is surely needed amongst their court.”
“Good,” I say. “Butgreatis a piece that scares you a little. That’s when you know it really hits.”
Nessa’s hands tremble. “Very well,” she murmurs more to herself than to me. “Then I shall make it so.”
“That’s right you will.”
Nessa beams, cheeks flushed, before dashing off to catch up to her friends.
Across the square, Declan and Tarek are talking, their laughter low and easy. I brush sand off the cushion I borrowed, tuck it under my arm, and start toward the stall.
Dav’s shadow falls over me, and I groan. “I’m puttingit back.” I hold out the cushion as evidence as I turn to face him. “I’m not stealing it.”
