Page 157

“That is my duty.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “And I truly am sorry for this.”

Her body tenses, too late.

I summon my theïkós and steal her breath.

The corridor splits ahead, one path leading to the banquet hall, the other deeper into the temple and the arena beyond. Torches flicker from their sconces, their light catching the gleam of the polished marble floor.

My steps slow, and the stolen Acolyte robes flutter around my feet. This is where our paths must diverge.

Xerxes and Silas overtake me with expressions of silent acknowledgment before they forge ahead. Rhaya, Cynna, and Titaia follow closely after them, each meeting my gaze, the latter offering a soft brush of her hand against my arm.

Kato remained in the northern chambers, keeping an eye on Sister Irene who is now bound, gagged, and hidden deep within Xerxes’s private rooms.

Warmth lingers at my side, setting my nerves alight, and I glance up at Lyxander.

The air between us is taut, vibrating with a tension that I’ve grown both keenly aware of and helpless to ignore. The kiss, the confrontation, everything said and left unsaid—it swirls like a storm contained within too small a shell. I can tell he’s struggling with this part of the plan, and that he’d much rather follow me on my search for the champions’ quarters and Nyssa. But since he showed up and announced his presence to Keres, there’s no avoiding it now.

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the silver waves. “Don’t do anything—”

“Reckless?” I say, my brow arching in a too-familiar deflection.

“Without me.”

The words lodge deep, striking a place I can never quite shield. They linger, refusing to recede, their meaning both command and confession, if I dared to look close enough.

My lips part, a response hovering out of reach, before I settle on a single, fleeting nod. His eyes linger on mine for a heartbeat longer. Then he tugs the hood farther over my face, turns, and follows the others.

They look as if they’re marching toward a battleground. I suppose that’s exactly what awaits in the banquet hall.

I drift past a fluted column, slipping into its shadow, then turn toward my destination.

Hugging the temple corridors, I move silently, careful to avoid others as I follow the winding paths etched in my memory from the floor plans Xerxes provided me with back in Kosmos. The air grows warmer as I descend, heat radiating from unseen vents, carrying with it the rich, lingering aroma of banquet preparations. I follow the scents of roasted spices and baking bread until the kitchens reveal themselves at last, the heavy door ajar and the clatter of utensils spilling out.

I slip inside. A long hearth snarls with flame, copper pots steam, knives thrum against cutting boards, and the cook’s voice rises above it all.

“Ephran, mind your fingers,” she says without looking, and a younger voice mutters an apology. She turns then, eyes narrowing at the sight of another robe in her domain. “What?”

“Wine,” I answer, already moving. I lift a vessel from a sideboard—the dark, burgundy stain around its lip confirming the contents—and stack a tower of clay cups in my other hand. “For the champions.”

She hums, distracted, already scolding someone else. “Tell Brother Mavros if he chips another cup, I’ll have his hide.” Her attention returns to the hearth. “Ephran—more salt.”

Ephran. Mavros. I tuck both names away as I make my way back into the corridor and follow the path mapped out in my mind.

The grand marble of the main halls narrows as I cross some unseen boundary from the temple to the arena’s outer halls. The air grows cooler, the walls shift to plainer, rougher stone that seems to swallow the light, and then, finally, the door to the champions’ quarters looms ahead. I brace myself on the threshold, then—juggling the vessel and cups between my hands—shoulder through the door.

Four Acolytes sit around a heavy wooden table at the center of the antechamber. Positioned between me and the door on the opposite side of the room, they stake out their territory with a battered deck of cards and a heap of walnut shells for betting. Their robes are cut the same as mine, but they hang differently—belts cinched tight, shoulders squared with a warrior’s set. They are a different breed from the owner of the stolen robes I wear. Younger, harder. Dangerous.

My stomach clenches. This is what I was afraid of—an unpredictable gauntlet I have to pass through. Even if they’re likely here to prevent any of the kingdoms sabotaging one another by harming the champions, it will still be all the more difficult to get Nyssa out.

I hug the wine vessel closer as I school my face into a mask of harmless servitude, trying to make myself smaller, invisible. But my heart thrums frantically against my ribs, each beat a question: Will they stop me? Will they see through the robe and recognize that I don’t belong?

Four heads lift when I approach, their hoods still shrouding their faces as if even here they need to stand on ceremony. I let the cups clink together lightly as I stop, the sound intentionally domestic.

“Wine for the champions,” I say, affecting the richness of Sister Irene’s voice. “And King Xerxes asked me to bring his blessing to the two from the North.”

A small silence falls over the group.