Page 152
From the moment I arrived, Xerxes’s charisma was impossible to ignore. He exudes effortless confidence, his dark skin glowing under the soft ambient light. The simple gold circlet resting atop his head of midnight curls is the mark of someone who commands without needing to announce it rather than the ornate crown of a king flaunting his reign. But it’s his generosity that sets him apart. He welcomed me into his home and offered his help without a second thought. It didn’t take long for me to learn he’s different from so many of the cold, self-serving royals I’ve met. A rare gem amid a pile of tarnished stone.
And then there’s me, the princess of the Sorrows, wearing yet another face that is not mine. The goiteía cuff at my wrist warms against my pulse, a more potent cousin to the earring I once used to shift hair and eye color. This one remakes me entirely: black hair, skin darkened a shade or two, hazel eyes, and my features altered enough that even someone who knows me would look twice and still miss.
Just another shadow moving trays and linens through temple halls.
A Songbird once again.
Desperation has a way of resurrecting things we hoped to bury. But hiding within Xerxes’s court grants me the breathing room to maneuver.
Once I’m inside the temple, I’ll sink into the veins of the place and vanish among the faceless Acolytes. Robes and routine will conceal me as I slip through service corridors and the undercroft to the champions’ quarters.
If not for Xerxes, I’d have gone charging in with my teeth bared and blade drawn. He steadied me with a firm hand and firmer logic, reminded me I’d be walking into the very snare they set—and that charging headfirst wouldn’t save Nyssa. I knew it, of course. And given the vision the Oracle showed me, the Eagle is counting on it. So, I have to turn his weaknesses against him: his hubris, his fixed belief in who I am and the choices I’m capable of making.
I’ve spent the past week poring over temple and arena floor plans, memorizing their twists and turns that braid beneath the public halls. The only place I must not set foot is the center of the arena itself. The barrier wall is engraved with nulling goiteía, and a single step on the sands will strip my disguise clean.
If Nyssa is held in the champions’ quarters, as we suspect—even under lock and guard—I will find her before the welcoming banquet ends. If she isn’t, then we wait until she’s brought into the public eye and tail her from there.
The games are a spectacle of brutality wrapped in gilded opulence, after all. They reek of Eretria’s Royal Trials—cruelty lacquered in gold to make it easier to swallow. Each night, beneath the flickering glow of a thousand lamps and the murmur of noble guests, the competitors are paraded like prize cows. If we don’t find her before the first game, then the celebration after will lead us to where they’ve penned her.
Timing, precision, and patience. The weight of each presses against my chest as I imagine the stakes over and over.
Footsteps strike against the stone floor, echoing with purpose.
“I’m coming,” Titaia announces as she marches toward us, the resolve lining her voice leaving no room for argument.
My heart stutters, and the air in the chamber room stills.
“Titaia,” Cynna says carefully. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe—”
“I’m aware,” Titaia says. Then, softer, as her eyes find mine, “But if Aella can walk willingly into a den of enemies for the people she loves, then so can I.”
My chest tightens at her admission, the quiet courage she folds into her stance. Arms crossed, chin tipped upward, like she’s daring us to challenge her. “Besides,” she adds, “I like Nyssa. And someone needs to make sure you don’t all get yourselves killed.”
“Keres will be there.” Cynna’s voice softens, but her shoulders remain tense.
“I know.” Titaia’s expression doesn’t waver. “But I’m tired of running from my monsters. You taught me better than that, didn’t you?”
Cynna doesn’t reply immediately, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, a small nod, almost imperceptible but there.
Silas looks to Xerxes, who tilts his head in faint amusement, though his calculating gaze betrays the way he’s carefully weighing the new risks.
“Very well,” Xerxes says, nodding to himself before he gestures toward the gate. “Let the Games begin, then.”
Titaia grins triumphantly as she steps closer to Cynna. Silas joins them, and, together, they step through the gate.
“Ready?” Xerxes turns, one arm held aloft in invitation. It was decided I would travel through with him, so as not to raise suspicions of my bloodline if anyone is watching on the other side.
I step forward, placing my hand on his forearm. The low vibration of the goiteía gate curls through my limbs as we stand on the threshold of what feels like both an ending and a beginning. The sensation wraps around me, pulling me inward, a tether binding my thoughts to Nyssa—her name a steady rhythm in the chaos. My heartbeat quickens, cold determination winding its way through my chest, coiling around the knot of fear that tightens with every breath.
Nyssa needs me. That truth cuts through every other in its path. I take a steadying breath, grazing my finger against the chain of gilded feathers hidden beneath my tunic as I will my resolve to harden.
And then we walk through.
Stepping into the goiteía gate is like falling into the Oracle’s pool all over again. For a fleeting moment, my body is weightless, and the world dissolves into shadow and light, bleeding together until there’s no distinction between where I end and the void begins.
I hold the Isle of the Winds in my mind as the air shifts around me. Warmth blooms in my chest, the golden essence of my soul magic unfurling, offered as payment to the gate for my passage.
Pressure forms beneath my feet. The jarring solidity after that weightless stretch is enough to steal my breath as my body catches up with the surrounding space. I glance around as my senses sharpen.
