Page 32 of The Heart Trials

There is a knock at the door.

“Yes?” I say, opening it.

Standing there is a woman with a thin face, high cheekbones, and a prominent chin. Her hands are folded at the waist of her uniform—a rigidly tailored skirt in Skyborn purple. Her corset is structured like steel armor, stitched tight and high. Tiny crystal hearts are embroidered into her collar, catching the light like tears, frozen midfall. More drip from her ears, her wrists, her throat. They’re small, unnecessary, cruel things.

“Contestant Fifty-Four?”

I blink.

“Axira Merreri?”

“Yes?”

“You’re very clean for a Saltblood.” She smiles tightly. “I’m Syra. Your assigned maid until your elimination—or your unlikely victory. Either way, I suggest you take this seriously. The Skyborn do not reward sentiment. We reward discipline with the gift of sentiment.”

I swallow. “I didn’t ask for—”

“I’m here to help you find your way at the Citadel. If you make it through the tournament, I’ll serve you as a citizen.”

“That’s really not necessary.” I wave a hand.

“It’s not a choice, Contestant Fifty-Four.” She steps inside and paces around me. “Hands at your sides when addressed. You are not in the gutter now.” She tugs on her corset, smoothing it. “You need help, whether you realize it or not. Love is a hunger the lowborn never learn to curb. That’s why you riot.”

I’ve never rioted a day in my life. And I have endless reasons to.

“That’s why your ancestors rutted like animals.”

I don’t even know what that means.

“That’s why you steal and lie. And sometimes”—she whispers—“grow foolish enough to challenge our great laws. That’s why you suffer.”

I flinch. Is she trying to convince me or herself?

“Emotion is not proof of sincerity,” she continues. “It’s proof of weakness. Control yourself. Or you have no hope in surviving this tournament when the gloves are off.”

I don’t move. She watches me as if she’s cataloging my flaws. My hesitation. The worn, ragged threads of my sentencing robes. It’s like she’s checking off the list of expectations she had about me before coming here.

“A fast learner. Perhaps you will prove to be the exception. Do you have any questions?”

So many, but the one that comes out is, “Do you always dress like that?”

Her chin lifts slightly. “Adornment reflects discipline. Beauty without sentiment is the mark of a civilized people. That’s what separates us from…” She trails off, but I hear the word anyway. You. She lets the silence hang. I refuse to fill it. Finally, she flicks an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve. “Feelings make the lowborn reckless. The tournament isn’t just about love, it’s about being brave and loyal, like—”

“A patriot,” I interject.

“Precisely.”

“Because the heart’s just a liability, right?”

“For you lowborn, yes.”

“At least on some things we agree,” I mutter.

Her smile is almost sympathetic. Almost. “But that’s why I’m here. To prepare you.” She hands me a package wrapped in paper. “A gift from the Benevolent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m going to make it to the end of this tournament,” I say. I’m going to have my ship.

She pauses in the doorway, not looking back at me. Then, she leaves.