She gave a short laugh through her nose, her eyes still on the shimmering feathers. “Save it? Bella, please. That’s a word for people who don’t get their boots stolen while they sleep. Let’s just be reckless and overfed for once.”

  “We’re practically nobles already.”

  We stood and rushed toward the market quarter, boots crunching soft leaves beneath us. The Major stalls would still be open, gold lamps burning, sharp-eyed traders already halfway through their nightly haggle rounds.

  The cloth was full now—each feather nestled like a secret, glowing faintly in the dusk. It wasn’t a fortune. But it was enough. Enough to feel, just for a breath, like the Realm owed us something sweet.

  Little joys like these didn’t come often. But when they did, we held them tight.

  The path to the arena shimmered with that strange twilight glow—neither full morning nor night’s retreat, only a muted haze that turned stone to silver and dust to light. We moved with the swell of the crowd, drawn toward the amphitheater’s looming gates like flotsam carried on tide.

  The stone underfoot shifted here, lighter and smoother than what we were used to. Polished walls arched overhead, trimmed in copper veins that glowed faintly with residual Aether. These halls were built for the ones who carried power in their bones. Every tile, every panel of stone and ironwood, was reinforced to withstand the unpredictable flare of Aether—mostly fire, here in Atlassian. But I’d heard stories: of walls designed to absorb storms, of windows sealed against sound that could shatter bone.

  Ahead of us, the main atrium opened into a garden split by stone paths and glinting pools. At its center, children played under the watchful gaze of robed instructors. Their laughter echoed off the walls like chimes.

  One boy cupped flame in his palms and tossed it like a ball to the girl beside him, who caught it and rolled it along her arms like ribbon. Another conjured sparks that danced in patterns between his fingers, bursting like stars when he clapped.

  Ashroot powder bins were tucked discreetly into the stone recesses nearby—ornate containers shaped like flowering vines. Emergency measures, supposedly. Instant flame suppressants if things ever went out of control. But I doubted they were ever needed here.

  This was magic with training. Aether with supervision. Power that never had to be questioned.

  “I wonder what it’s like,” Amara murmured, “to know the world was built to suit you. To keep your tantrums from burning down the halls.”

  “To play with fire and never get burned?” I said.

  She gave a half-laugh. “Exactly.”

  We walked a little slower then, watching the pebbles hover around a little girl who looked barely five. She wasn’t even paying attention. Humming under her breath, bored. The pebbles bobbed around her like lazy stars.

  “She’s got better control than half the Majors I’ve cleaned up after,” I muttered.

  “She probably is a Major,” Amara said. “Or better—a Royal. Look at her cuffs, those are silk. Castle-spun.”

  I made a face. “So, what—Royals playing in the garden now? Don’t they usually stay inside the upper rings?” I asked.

  “They do,” she said. “Unless it’s one of his orders.”

  I didn’t have to ask who she meant. Damien Azarios. The Heir. Since his formal induction last year, he’d taken on more of the Sovereign’s mantle—issuing commands, presiding over ceremonies, speaking for the Crown without wearing it.

  Not that anyone had taken it off Alaric’s head.

  “He gives me a headache,” I said. “Too polished. Too...still.”

  Amara snorted. “And Sovereign Alaric doesn’t?”

  “I’ve never seen the man smile.”

  “Maybe his face can’t bend that way.”

  I shook my head, but not in disagreement. “What an awful soul.”

  “To be fair,” she murmured, “it was the Heir who made sure the palace sent more provisions and pressured the Majors to open their reserves.”

  “That was him?”

  “Guess even a cold Heir can feel hunger if he tries hard enough.”

  We passed beneath a low arch carved with runes I couldn’t read, into a corridor that gleamed like a sunken temple. Majors stood above the flow of bodies, their flame-sewn robes catching what little light the Celestia offered. And below them, pressed shoulder to shoulder, commoners craned for glimpses between gaps in linen and wool. The scent of ember-root clung to the breeze—sharp, smoky, and slightly sweet.

  Then came a sudden sound. A sharp crack—like thunder with its breath held. Heads turned. Even the Majors paused.

  But all I could hear was faint whispers that made no sense to me.

  I tensed. “I don’t like that.”

  Amara’s hand found my sleeve. “Are you hearing those whispers again?” she murmured. “Something is buried Bella. Something they don’t speak of. And last night…you felt it, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t wait for confirmation. She already knew.

  The crowd began to surge up the steps into the watching gallery, drawn forward with that quiet urgency only uncertainty could summon. Amara held fast to my hand and pulled me with her.

  “This better be worth it,” I muttered, heart thudding in my throat. I didn’t know it then, but that sound would be the first fracture in the world as I knew it—the ripple before the fall.

  The arena came alive. Murmurs swelling into a low roar as the Royals began to arrive. They entered the high box one by one, slipping behind carved balustrades with the kind of grace that could only be inherited. Silvers and crimsons shimmered in their robes.

  Our attention shifted by instinct to the figure standing at the end of the stairs, still speaking with one of the guards. Whatever he said earned him a sharp nod.

  Then he turned and began to climb. The Heir who’d built a reputation on choosing Atlassian first, always first. He ascended the stairs, no rush or fanfare. Just enough to shift every gaze in the arena—like gravity had quietly decided it belonged to him now.

  He was tall, absurdly so. Too refined to be anything but royal, from the symmetry of his features to the way he stood. His hair was artfully disheveled, like he’d run a hand through it and forgotten to care. Faint stubble dusted his tanned jaw and cheek, a shadow of something untamed beneath all the polish⁠—

  Beside me, Amara let out a low breath, not quite a whistle. “Alright,” she muttered, “I take back every complaint.”

  I didn’t have to ask which ones. “Skipping laundry,” she added, “was clearly divine intervention.” A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it—partly at her lame joke, mostly at her overblown enthusiasm.

  Whispers stirred.

  “What’s Young Sovereign doing here?”

  “Too minor a gathering...”

  “Unless this Selection...”

  Our eyes shifted as the arena gates opened. One by one, the competitors emerged. Some bore sigils, others colors of noble houses. But one woman came cloaked in plain cloth, face unreadable, her step too calm. She wore no mark at all. The murmurs returned.

  “This isn’t a game?” Amara asked herself too loudly.

  She was right. A cloaked woman behind us leaned forward. “It’s a trial,” she murmured. “For the Sovereign’s Guard. Only five will be chosen to swear the Oath.”

  “And the rest?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  The woman met my gaze. “They either bleed...or vanish.”

  Chapter 3

  Mirabelle

  The ground trembled beneath our feet like something waking. A pulse from the deep places of the ground.

  From the center of the arena, the sand began to writhe. Black tendrils pushed through the surface, slick yet smokey, coiling things that moved with too much purpose to be mere shadow. They twisted skyward, glistening like oil, alive with a wrongness I felt in my bones.

  The crowd gasped as one. A few competitors stumbled back. One hurled a torrent of flame, but it was swallowed whole, the fire evaporated on contact, like breath on glass. Another cried out and struck with flamed lightning. The tendrils drank it in, crackling for a heartbeat before dimming into nothing.

  Then one lashed out. It wrapped around a young man’s leg with a serpent’s speed and flung him upward, so fast, so high, his scream never even formed. He hit the ground like a marionette with its strings cut, limbs twisted at impossible angles. Screams rippled through the stands.

  My fingers found Amara’s arm, and I clutched her without thinking. “What are those?”

  Her eyes didn’t leave the arena. She didn’t even blink. “Dreadclaw, deadliest of our Tameables,” she murmured. “I’ve read and heard about him.” Oh, even I have.

  Another fighter—young, fast, tried to run. The shadows caught him mid-stride and dragged him down. Not swallowed. Not hidden. Shredded.

  I heard someone retch behind us. The crowd had come expecting Aether. They got terror. “What kind of trial is this?” Amara whispered in horror.

  Now the tendrils were everywhere, writhing like a nest of serpents let loose in a cage. Screams rose from the fighters and the stands alike. Two Majors fought side by side, back-to-back—one with a glimmering ash shield, the other launching blasts of flames. But all were losing. Still, I could see three or four of the Majors stood within the chaos, bloodied, scorched, barely breathing, but somehow still alive.

  Something was building beneath my skin again, low and sharp and hot, like a flicker of lightning trapped under bone.

  The Dreadclaw lunged again, this time not toward a fighter, but toward the perimeter. The stands. Panic rippled through the crowd. They shoved, shouted. And then it turned. No, it stopped.

  The tendrils froze, half-lashed midair. One hovered directly above a boy shielding his sister. Another hovered inches from the arena’s glowing barrier, where the protective wards shimmered uncertainly, flickering like a dying flame. With a sound like a thunderclap torn sideways, the Dreadclaw slammed into the outer barrier and shattered it.

  Wards screamed as they broke. The light webbing the edge of the arena exploded in shards of gold and silver, vanishing into smoke.

  Then came the silence. A breath. A blink.

  Screams tore through the stands. Bodies surged like a tide, commoners tripping over benches, clambering over each other in blind panic. The scent of scorched leather and fear hit all at once. Somewhere behind me, someone was sobbing. Somewhere else, someone shouted orders no one listened to.

  The Majors didn’t move. Neither did the Royals. Their golden box towered above the carnage, untouched. The Heir stood at its edge, arms crossed, head tilted. Watching everything as if this were nothing more than a passing storm.

  And the Dreadclaw came through the ruins like it owned Atlassian.

  “Amara,” I choked. “Run. Now.”

  We turned, forcing our way through the panicked swarm. Commoners screamed, some fell, others shoved us without looking back. The scent of scorched cloth and raw fear soaked the air.

  Amara’s fingers dug into mine. “Why is no one stopping it?!”

  “They’re watching,” I spat, my voice shaking. And they were. As if waiting for a cue that never came. As if they’d rather lose a dozen commoners than act without royal permission.

  My fury spiked sharp enough to push back the fear. Amara yanked my hand. We ran. Feet pounding over sand that shifted like it wanted to hold us back. But it wasn’t fast enough. I glanced over my shoulder, and terror crept through me like ice.

  It was subtle. No flashing eyes or pointed claws. Just a soft redirection, like a hunter adjusting its step when the prey strays off course. The tendrils skimmed the ground with deliberate grace, curling slightly. But I knew.

  I knew.

  It was coming for me. And it was moving like it knew exactly where I’d run, how far I’d get, where I’d stumble. It didn’t need to rush. It had the patience of a nightmare that had waited centuries to be unshackled.

  My lungs clamped shut. My vision tunneled.

  “It’s coming after me,” I choked.

  “What?” Amara shouted, still pulling me.

  I shouted. “It’s me it wants!”

  She pulled harder. “Don’t be ridiculous, just run with me.”

  We ran until our lungs burned, ducking behind a shattered column near the south arch. Commoners still flooded past, faces wild, screams unending, limbs flailing in every direction. For a breath, we were hidden.

  Until we weren’t. A tendril came out of nowhere, arcing overhead and crashing into the pillar beside me. The stone exploded. I hit the ground hard, pain tearing up my spine. My ears rang.

  “Amara!” I gasped.

  She turned, just a second too late. That beast struck. It didn’t kill her. It didn’t even try. It just whipped one monstrous limb into her chest and sent her flying like a kicked sack of grain. I screamed and bolted after her, but I froze a moment later.

  I couldn’t go to her. Not with the creature still searching for me. If I stayed, I’d lead it right to her. So I ran, changed my direction. And something inside me broke.

  I turned, chest heaving, rage lashing inside me like a storm barely contained. The Royal Box towered above the carnage like nothing beneath it could touch them.

  I ran toward it. My legs moved on fury alone. I tore across the courtyard and hurled myself up the marble steps, steps carved for reverence, not rebellion. Not today.

  I reached the base of the platform, breath ripping out of me, and stopped just short of the polished steps. My fists trembled and my body burned. My voice came out hoarse and ragged and loud enough to crack.

  “Get your damn beast under control, you flame-blooded coward.” I didn’t care if the Royals gasped, or the guards bristled. I didn’t care.

  My words cracked against the hush like a whip. “If something happens to her, I swear I’ll become your death⁠—”

  The beast’s claws wrapped around my ribs and yanked me from the ground. Claws like iron bands closed around my torso, lifting me effortlessly from the stone. My vision blurred. Just one last glimpse, of the Heir.

  Still calm. A single brow raised. And the faintest—faintest, curve of his lips. The sky spun. My scream never made it out. Only the silence did.

  Chapter 4

  Damien

  The ascent to the Sovereign’s wing was steep and spiraling, carved through the uppermost corridors of the Atlassian Palace where light dared not linger. Up here, silence had a different quality—sharp-edged and listening.

  The two guards flanking the final arch shifted as I approached. One stiffened a fraction too late. Noted.

  The council chamber was built for intimidation, cold marble veined with black obsidian, high windows that filtered dawn into something gray and sterile. At its center stood the man who’d ruled since long before I’d learned to walk, let alone wield power.

  Alaric Azarios. Sovereign of Clan Atlassian. My father.

  He didn’t look up, but I felt the weight of his attention settle on me the moment I entered. Nothing about his posture moved, yet everything tightened.

  “Damien,” he said at last, voice low and worn like iron pulled from a forge. “Report?”

  I stepped forward, clasping my hands behind my back. “The four Majors who survived the trial have been relocated to the Argent Estate. Under quiet guard, as instructed.”

  He said nothing. So, I continued. “Cassian Arlith—speed affinity, excellent reflexes. Rhevas Krell—volatile but shows rare signs of elemental blending. Alden Varro—sharp mind, battlefield intuition, but his family’s allegiances are, murky.”

  I paused, then added, “Lyria Farrow. Controls fire by sheer will. No glyphwork, just raw will bending flames to her command like it’s an extension of her pulse.”

  That earned a flick of his gaze. “And their condition?”

  “Recovering. Lyria’s injuries are extensive. The others will be ready soon.”

  He nodded once, a clipped gesture. “We will need them sooner than that. Our Sages are seeing more breaches forming like cracks beneath the wards. The Elders argue, as they always do, but time no longer favors us.”

  “I am aware,” I said. “And the artifact recovered from the southern ruins?”

  He drummed one finger against the armrest of the obsidian throne. “The Elders say the seal is fraying. Each relocation risks fracturing the Crown’s bind. And we still don’t understand how deep that connection runs.”

  It had been recovered to aid us, but no one knew if it would rise to our call or turn on us when the time came.

  I didn’t look away. “Then stop moving it.”

  He did look at me now. Measuring. “You speak as though you weren’t raised by men who built empires on gambles.”

  “We’re gambling with something we don’t understand.”

  “That’s the only kind of bet worth placing.”

  The silence between us thickened. Finally, I broke it. “We’ll need more candidates outside the noble lines. I want a full detachment trained under the Legion’s secondary protocols.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’d build a shadow force?”

  I held his gaze. “I’d build survivors. Hunters. What we need now isn’t loyalty—it’s instinct.”

  A pause. “You’ll oversee it personally.”

  “I already am.”

  He studied me again. Longer this time. “Was the Dreadclaw incident—contained?”

  “Contained,” I replied.

  He studied me. “It broke formation. That’s not normal behavior.”

  I nodded once. “It wasn’t a breach. It was a hesitation. I wanted to observe, not just what he would do, but why. He shifted his focus and that intrigued me.” I paused, “But I had control, and I wouldn’t have let it harm the commoners.”

  His jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue. After a breath, he said, “Make sure the Throne Council doesn’t catch wind of any of this. If the Elders suspect we’re training outside bloodlines for Royal Legion⁠—”

 

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