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Kato sits on the nearest chaise longue, bent forward with his head cradled in his hands, and on the one opposite him, Titaia is curled into Cynna’s shoulder. Rhaya paces in front of the fireplace, and as she turns around her gaze lands on me. She freezes mid-step, her eyes widening.

“Aella,” she says, my name escaping her in a disbelieving whisper.

Kato’s head snaps up, and I barely have a moment for guilt to set in over his tortured expression before Titaia launches from the chaise and collides with me. Agony ripples through my ribs, and I hiss out a pained breath. But I wrap my arms around her, returning the embrace.

“You’re alive,” Titaia says, the words caught somewhere between relief and confusion as she finally relinquishes her hold. “How? The kin said you went to the Leap and fell.”

I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Ares caught me.”

Kato huffs a laugh. “Thank Boreas for that furry beast.”

“I can’t believe it,” Rhaya murmurs as she slumps onto the chaise beside him.

“Neither could I, and I think it’s best we keep it to ourselves.” I look between them, my resolve solidifying beneath the weight of their stares, until my gaze lands on Cynna. “When you leave for the Games, I’m coming with you.”

Chapter 45

Nyssa

The metal cuffs dig into my wrists, biting against raw skin, but I don’t bother moving to alleviate the pressure. The fight left me somewhere in the days—or weeks—between the failed rescue and this wooden prison. My arms hang heavy at my sides, the numbness spreading up to my shoulders, and the back of my throat seems permanently stained with the sharp tang of brine and bile. I’m not certain which makes it worse: the incessant rocking motion of this ship, or the unfamiliar magic slithering beneath my skin.

The theïkós doesn’t stay still for long. Every pulse of it feels wrong, invasive, and I don’t know how Deke bore this his entire life. My stomach churns every time I think about him, about what they did to me. To us.

He didn’t deserve to die like that, and the memory of it haunts me.

The confusion in Deke’s eyes as I tried to help him out of the cell, the flicker of resolve when he attempted to help me. And then his blood—so much blood, pooling dark on the stone floor. But worst of all is the image of the Eagle carving into him, the green mist rising from his cuts and sliding into mine.

I close my eyes, pressing the back of my head against the damp wood behind me.

Stupid. I was so stupid. And now…gods help me, I don’t know what’s happened to Kallias or Max. Malis said they’d been captured, but I don’t trust a thing that comes from that twisted man’s mouth. He wouldn’t risk the wrath of the king by harming his heir, but Maxim doesn’t have that same security.

Are they safe? Did they—did I—

The thought crumbles before it can finish. My mind doesn’t seem to know how to hold on to things right now. There’s only this crushing mess of guilt and anger and…something much colder.

The chains rattle as the door groans on rusted hinges. My eyes fly open as light spills into the hull, dim and slanted, but it cuts straight through the darkness. Dust motes dance in the beam, caught in the heavy, damp air.

I scowl as Raven steps inside, his shadow stretching across the warped planks of the floor. The faint sway of the ship sends it shifting, and I struggle to hold on to the expression as uneven rhythm makes my stomach lurch violently. With effort, I raise my chin enough to glare at him.

For the first time since I’ve known him, the usual brooding confidence is absent, stolen by something quieter. Smaller. He pauses a few feet away, and the tray he carries wobbles as his fingers tighten around its edge. A tilt of the ship almost sends its contents toppling, but he steadies them before they fall.

Neither of us says a word.

Him, probably because he’s a fucking bastard, and me, because I might throw up.

I hold his gaze for a moment, then drop mine. I can’t bear to meet his eyes, seeing Aella’s face floating on the edges of my memory. Not after what the Eagle told me.

He kneels before me, a bowl in hand, carefully scooping its contents. The scrape of the spoon against the bowl grates in the quiet.

“Eat,” he commands.

The gruel is as cold and lifeless as this room. Congealed, gray, tasteless, but I don’t refuse it. The smell of it turns my stomach, but my body’s too starved for defiance, and hopefully I can keep some of it down this time. I tilt my head to the side, gaze locked on the shadows behind him as he spoons the slop toward my mouth. When he lifts it closer, I close my lips around the spoon, wincing as I swallow.

He hesitates between each bite, like he expects me to spit it out the second he tries again. “You’re not going to talk to me, are you?”

I open my mouth, expectantly awaiting the next spoonful. Only, it doesn’t come.

“Lark and Myna are both unharmed,” he says, the words tumbling out of him.