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“Looks like another Indiana Jones-style trap,” Tier says in a deadpan voice. “How lovely.”

Khol eyes the tiles, then the ceiling, and then me. “It’s for you, Sassy. Your mark is the only thing lighting up the room, just like before. You’ll have to go first again.”

Of course I will; why wouldn’t this place hope I break my back when I step on the wrong crack?

As soon as I step into the dome, the crescent on my hand pulses so hard my fingers go numb. Every tile within five feet of me flares, then subsides, as if recognizing my presence. Yay, it’s definitely all about me again—this trial is obsessed with making me feel like I’m not good enough for the entire realm of Faerie.

Revelin nudges past Khol, squinting at the floor. “It’s a logic puzzle,” he says, the words tumbling out as he squints at the floor. “It’s built to prevent anyone but the rightful heir from reaching the center. Look—” He points at a tile. “You step on the wrong sigil, you get zapped.”

Khol looks unimpressed. “That’s what we did before, isn’t it? Maybe this time, stepping on the wrong thing will kill us. Escalation seems more like their speed here.”

I swallow hard as I stare at the unfamiliar symbols. “Rev, if it’s based on logic and I don’t know some of these, how am I supposed to choose the right ones? I don’t have the requisite knowledge to do anything but fail.”

My prince frowns, obviously realizing my point is valid. “Most Fae who are sent to one of these would have been learning things about their court and Faerie their entire life. You’re likely the only person who’s ever set foot in the trial without that foundation, so yeah, you’re at a big disadvantage.”

“Can you help me?”

It’s Dezi who answers, surprisingly. “He would if he could. I may recognize some of them, but I believe you may have to do this yourself or it will consider your success is due to cheating.”

“We should try it before we rule it out,” I grumble as I step on the nearest tile to feature the moon from my palm. It lights up, and I look at the two of them. “Alright, which tile should I step on next?”

They lean toward one another and I watch as Dezi gestures at a weird looking symbol and Revelin shakes his head. My prince points to another one, and that gets a veto from the vamp. Going back and forth, they eliminate quite a few options before I groan. Finally, Rev says, “Try gort.”

I give him a look as if he’s fucking insane and he blinks. Dezi elbows him, muttering something before they both look at me sheepishly.

“It’s the one that looks like two slanted lines with a diagonal strike through it.”

Right. Next project on the bus ride is studying fucking Fae languages, I suppose.

Stepping on it gingerly, I wait and a mighty zap of energy comes up from the mark into my leg. I screech as I pull it back, panting heavily as the pain radiates through me. “G-Guess I can’t have h-help,” I mumble.

“Guess it doesn’t like cheaters,” Khol says, his humor dry as sand as he watches me carefully.

Glaring at him, I shake myself until the pins and needles go away. “This place doesn’t like anyone. But now we know, so you all have to shut up while I think. No helpful commentary from the peanut gallery or we’re all going to die. Got it?”

They look worried as they nod and they fucking should be. I have no clue how I’m going to work out a logic puzzle in a language I don’t speak. I stare at my mark, then at the tiles, and try to think like a sadistic, logic-obsessed immortal. What would they want? What am I supposed to do?

The answer, unfortunately, isn’t written on my body or the walls—I have to wing it.

I step forward, and the tile under my foot glows blue, then shifts to white, then back to blue. The next tile lights up in anticipation. I move, and the light follows, a breadcrumb trail of binary code.

Revelin whistles low and impressed. “It’s following your pattern—you’re the key.”

“I hate being the key master,” I mutter. “Too much evil dog slobber.”

My joke doesn’t land despite how clever it is, so I go back to staring at the patterns on the floor. The path is not a straight line. It doubles back, it zigzags, and loops me around the dome in a dizzying spiral. Every time I hesitate, the tile dims, as if growing impatient. I’m following my instincts more than anything else, but the stress of doing so is making each step harder and harder.

Behind me, the others follow in single file, careful to step only where I do. When Khol tries to shortcut across a row, the tile under him hums with a warning, and he swears, jumping back to the main line.

Guess it taught him the same lesson I learned.

After a dozen moves, I realize the tiles are cycling through a sequence—crescent, full, new, then the gibbous, and then other runes in between. Every fourth step, the mark on my palm spikes with pain, and the floor under me glows so bright I can see the bones in my feet. It wants something—a sacrifice, or a signal, or just proof I’m not an imposter. I don’t know how to give it that, but I keep going until I end up at the center of the dome.

In front of me stands a pillar, black as the rest of the room, but on top is a disc of pure white, split down the middle like a crescent moon. The split is jagged, like a wound, and I shudder as that sensation flows through me. I don’t need Dezi or Rev to tell me what happens next.

I walk to the pillar; the others arrayed behind me like a jury. The mark on my hand is a star going supernova, but I take a breath and press my palm to the crescent on top of the pillar.

The world explodes with blue.