Page 7 of Under Restless Skies

More men approach me. I don’t understand how the academy can allow this, how nobody tried to check if I was telling the truth. Didn’t they see that there was no ball under any of the cups? That I was right?

The instructor’s hand leaves my mouth only to be replaced by a gag. Hands push me to the ground, yanking my arms behind me. My head aches and a buzz fills my mind.

Rain pours on the canopy, wetting the ground and my ripped dress.

Nobody steps up to defend me, to agree with me that it was a mistake. And I’m here, fallen—like my dreams.

My throat is dry, begging for water, and my scraped legs and hands sting as if touching a hot pan. I’m alone in a cell in the basement of the academy, a bare room with stone walls and a door with iron bars. No other prisoners are here, either in this cell or the others.

The thunderstorm came and went, and hours and hours passed. Nobody came to see me. Nobody came to apologize, let me go, and tell me I’ve been admitted with high honors to the Sky Academy.

My illusions that this was some unfortunate misunderstanding have dissolved. All my silly, false hope… gone.

In the hallway, a jar with lumos algae provides a faint luminescence, its dim light barely reaching me. The scent of urine and mold is so overpowering that I have to stifle my sense of smell. With no chair, no bench, no mattress, I’ve been sitting cross-legged, my back leaning on the uncomfortable, rough wall.

But the worst discomfort is imagining my brother waiting, wondering if I’m still alive. I should have been back home by now either to pack or to tell him I failed. Odd that this second possibility doesn’t strike me as desperately tragic anymore. I take a deep, shaky breath. This is no tragedy either. Surely they’ll let me go tomorrow—or in a few days. Maybe months. Eventually, I’ll be back at the restaurant.

The thought hits me with a surprising sense of relief, and yet tears pool in my eyes.

Is this it? Where it ends? I’ve been thinking of ways to expose that instructor, to ask for a second chance, but how exactly am I going to do that? And if nobody helped me when they could clearly see what he did, why would they help me now?

Not a single realistic solution crosses my mind—only foolish hopes. And then, perhaps my hopes were always foolish. What hurts is that I don’t understand why. So many candidates passed, many of them not even sent to the Foros table. Why did I always have to go there? And why did that instructor decide to ruin my chances? Answers might not fix anything, but I want to know. Need to know.

Still, right now, I’d do anything to contact my brother—and for some water. I considered banging on the bars and yelling for the guards, but I doubt it would make a difference. Plus, I want to get out of here, and my best bet is for them to deem me harmless and well behaved.

Once I’m out, I’ll find that instructor. Oh, that I will. And I’ll make sure he’ll regret what he did. My anger is the only thing grounding me, soothing my wounds, easing my worry. And at least hope for revenge is some hope, something to look forward to. That said, right now, I need water even more than I need my epic vengeance.

After a long time, the door at the end of the hallway opens, and I get up, glad that someone’s finally coming to see me. I hope they’re bringing food, or, even better, letting me out.

Although I’ve been doing my best to stop sensing any smell, an oddly familiar scent reaches my nose. A man’s smell—with a hint of bergamot. My heart speeds up. It can’t be. I step away from the bars and watch as the disgraceful instructor approaches me, the faint light from the lumos jar silhouetting his form, illuminating his wavy black hair.

Has he come to taunt me? To brag, perhaps?

“What do you want?” My voice is smaller and thinner than I hoped.

Only half of his face is lit, and yet there’s an unquestionable smirk there. “Want? Me? You think I’m the one wanting?”

I can’t help but take a step forward, toward the bars. “So you’re just taking a stroll?”

His gaze drops to the floor and his brows contract. “They didn’t give you any food?”

The pity in his voice stirs all the anger that has been simmering in me since I was brought here. What an asshole. My fist clenches and I feel heat rising to my head. “Let me out,” I rasp. “You know I didn’t do anything. You hid the ball⁠—”

“Hush. Silence.” The urgency in his voice manages to quiet my protests, and he continues, his accent registering more clearly than before, “Do you really want to repeat treasonous words?”

“What treason?” I say between gritted teeth, then whisper, “You cheated.”

He laughs. “Mayara, right? Did you grow up on an isolated island or something?”

“Our kingdom is on an island.”

“I suppose.” His tone is sardonic. “Except that it seems you have no clue how things function in Dracolius.”

“Why? You want to convince me that cheating’s the norm here?”

He glances upward, tapping his chin, then his dark eyes find mine again. “I wouldn’t use those words, no. If I wanted to risk my life with treason, it would be for something worthwhile.” He’s definitely here to goad me, to brag. I need to stop him.

“Did you bring any food? Water? Or did you come here to waste my time?”