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“I know this is a lot to take in—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say. “My whole life I have followed the orders of kings, commanders, and cowards. I want to choose my own fate. Not have it dictated by some prophecy.”

“You don’t have to face it alone.”

“And who am I meant to trust—you?”

I don’t know why it hurts so much, but it does. It feels like he’s taken a blade to a wound that was still raw from Raven’s betrayal, tearing it wider, letting the pain spill out all over again. Because I had started to trust him. I had let him in, told him things, shown him parts of myself I had never entrusted to anyone before. All because I had foolishly believed that some part of him cared.

But everything he’s revealed tonight has laid bare the depths of his deceit. He knew who I was the instant he saw me, and he lured me here with false concerns over my theïkós. All for the sake of some prophecy.

I was never a person to him. I was a means to an end. And I am so tired of being used as a piece on someone else’s board.

My chest heaves. “You may be sharing your version of the truth now, but it doesn’t erase the time it was left unspoken. It doesn’t make it easier to swallow everything you didn’t say. You kept me blind on purpose, and now I’m supposed to be grateful? To act like it doesn’t cut as deep as every other knife I’ve taken in the back?”

Lyxander’s calm mask slips, revealing the cracks beneath, and his wings fold tighter against his back, as if bracing for a blow.

I stare at him, fury holding my breath hostage.

“You should have let me fall. It would have hurt less.”

Part Two

Chapter 16

Nyssa

The first champion trial has begun.

Over the past couple of weeks, the grand hall of the palace has been transformed into an arena. A low fence encircles the combatants, its rough wood out of place within the polished marble walls and gilded decadence of the space. Rows of seating flank the battleground, nobles perched on velvet cushions, their jeweled finery glinting in the flickering candlelight.

In the shadowed archway of the servants’ entrance, I pause, balancing a vessel of wine on my hip as I rake my eyes across the scene.

A man with bronze skin and dark, tightly braided hair moves like a predator, his eyes focused as he lunges forward for another strike. His opponent, a woman with dark, elegant features and scars crisscrossed over her arms, counters with a ferocity that belies her lean frame. Her twin daggers fly up to block him, the clash of steel resounding off the walls.

The other candidates line the boundary, either waiting their turn or assessing their competition. There are twelve in total, but the ones who stand out all have the same hungry look in their eyes. An exceptionally tall woman stands like a statue, her muscular frame coiled with tension. Beside her, an androgynous figure with a broad grin and raven hair leans casually against the fence. Farther down, a wiry man with slicked-back hair paces like a caged animal.

Beyond them, the king and his advisors watch the trial from a dais.

A cold rush of fear washes over me as I peer at the Eagle by his side. But tonight, he is Lord Amon Malis, advisor to the Crown.

Long, sleek dark hair falls straight past his shoulders. His tunic is white linen, draped just so at the chest, its edges and collar embroidered with fine gold thread. On him the crown would not look out of place.

Is that the kind of power he covets?

I shake off the thought. I can’t consider this right now. The possibility is far too terrifying, and I can’t lose my nerve. While the Eagle and the king are preoccupied with the trial, it’s a perfect opportunity to sneak into the king’s private study.

The prince, meanwhile, is seated at the far end on a low, wide chair that looks more like a throne. He sprawls back, his elbow braced against the armrest and fingers curled loosely around a goblet, an expression of intense disinterest on his face, as if the trials and the gaggle of courtiers hovering nearby bore him.

That changes, however, when his gaze meets mine across the hall.

It’s been two weeks since our meeting in his chambers, and I have had very little to show for it. I’ve needed to be cautious, toeing the line between spy and servant.

There’s also been no word from Myna. The only hint that she may have received our message was the return of Cinder, his leg bare, the note we’d tied to it conspicuously absent. But that alone doesn’t guarantee she received our message. For all we know, it could have been intercepted—or worse, ignored.

And I can tell from Kallias’s gaze alone that he is getting impatient.

“It’s probably not wise to stare. That’s how rumors start.”