The second night of Nemoralia found the great hall subdued. While males still drank and whored and gambled, the air hung heavy, as if whatever power had claimed Leda waited in the darkened wings, watchful and hungry in the shadows.

Varian led me to the high table and offered me a seat between him and his father’s empty throne. Where the ancient male was, I didn’t care to imagine. The guards fell into place around us.

The meal passed in heavy silence. Only Solara, as light as buttercream, chatted a few seats down, her easy conversation a balm to everyone around her. Even Elysa’s red lips split into a smile as they talked.

Then Varian stood.

A barked command from one of the Imperials called the hall to order. As one, the Dorians fell silent. As one, they turned toward their General Prince.

“As many of you know,” he began, solemn as a winter storm, “Leda, daughter of Ignatius, Governor of the Westerlands, was killed last night. She was as true a Dorian as any can be—obedient to her father, devoted to the gods she was learning to serve, and steadfast in her defense of Doria and our customs. I believe she paid for this unflinching loyalty with her life.”

Murmurs ran through the room, silenced by Varian’s upraised hand. “The Korai, Aurora, examined Leda once the temple was safely cleared. She exposed a vital clue to the identity of Leda’s killer. Clutched in the poor girl’s mutilated hand was an onyx ring. Carved on this ring was a three-headed beast—the guardian of the Underworld, Cerberus. The sigil of Aidoneus of Myridia.”

This time cries filled the room.

“Please, sons of Doria, calm yourselves, for in the early hours of the morning, the Lord of Myridia was arrested. His followers have since fled the city. Tonight, you may notice the absence of notable priestesses, but do not worry. They are busy consulting the ancient books of law that govern the Celestial City so that they may determine the Myridian’s fate. So, feast on this second night of Nemoralia and grieve for Leda of Skyy if you must, but know that her death will soon be avenged.

“Yet, a word of warning to my fellow competitors . . . the Trials are still upon us. We do not know when the priestesses will see fit to begin the next competition. And I promise I will be ready for whatever surprises they throw our way.”

Only a moment before, the males had been full of rage at Leda’s death, but with Varian’s words, light now filled their eyes. Yet as their moods brightened, something within me darkened, for that light was not warm. It was sharp and cruel—it held the hungry edge of Bloodlust.

Varian did not return to the seat beside me, rather moving to the crowd below, to be with his men as a leader should. After a time, Elysa took his place.

“I’m sorry,” I said to my sister. “I’m sorry Nemoralia wasn’t what you wanted it to be.”

She shrugged, though there was a twist to her lips that I recognized as frustration—maybe even pain. “When has it ever been? At least this year was memorable.”

It certainly was that. And yet . . . I felt you, I said mind to mind. I felt your confusion. Your shock. And Leda was your friend. Are you alright?

I just . . . I don’t understand how it happened. The lower levels were supposed to be closed.

Warded and sealed, or so Sibyl and the guard had said. Very few were even meant to know they existed. I would certainly have never guessed they were there.

The scene replayed in my mind—Leda’s withered skin, her wrist, cut so deep the nerves had been severed to curl her fingers into an unnatural claw. Beside me, Elysa stiffened.

Oh, gods. Unthinking, I’d sent the memory down the bond. Elysa . . . I—

“Oh, come on sisters,” a bright voice interrupted. Solara ambled over, a glass of wine in each hand. “Sitting in a corner pouting isn’t going to change what’s happened. Let’s drink to Leda’s memory.”

Sharing a long-suffering look, Elysa and I reluctantly accepted the offered glasses and stood to follow her. She led us to an alcove, hidden partially by long tapestries, where a table stood between two pillowed couches. Waiting there sat a familiar figure.

“Lux?” I nearly screamed.

He grimaced a bit at my voice’s pitch. His hair, longer than most Dorians kept it, was ruffled. And around his mouth . . .

Is Solara’s lipstick smeared? Elysa asked.

Well, there was one mystery solved. Now for the other. “Your lord is sitting in the dungeon. Why aren’t you with him?”

“My lord?” Lux laughed. “I’m a Dorian. A member of the imperial family. Do you really think I’d follow a mutt like Aidoneus?”

Solara settled into the seat beside him, scooting close so nearly every bit of her exposed skin touched his own. He threw an intimate arm over her shoulder and she giggled.

I thought I might be sick.

But beside me, Elysa was a block of ice. “What do you mean a member of the imperial family? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

Another shadow darkened our corner. “Lux Lucius, son of my father’s sister, Bellona, and Fontus, former Lord of Triton,” Varian said. “My cousin.”

“What?” I breathed.

Varian stepped into the light. “All I had to do was shove a male who seemed derisive of Doria into his path and Aidoneus leapt for the bait like a starving trout.”

Varian’s words tasted of truth. And now that they both were so close together . . . they bore the same square jaw, the same cleft chin. Varian smiled at the realization that spread across my face. “The failure of the Shardian War tested the loyalty of many—my aunt and her husband among them. They paid the price for their disloyalty, as did Lux.”

Lux threw back his drink.

Elysa, careful student of history that she was, stated the facts plainly. “You mean he lost the right to his lands.”

Varian nodded. “A better fate than his parents suffered.”

Elysa must have sensed my confusion because her voice soon filled my mind. It was a difficult time after the war. Bellona . . . she was cut from the same cloth as the Emperor—a true daughter of Ares. She’d waited centuries for the right time to strike. And when the moment finally came, she failed.

“About five years ago, I happened upon Lux at the docks in Naxera,” Varian said. “And, well, you can imagine the rest from there.”

“You wanted him to infiltrate the Myridian court,” I said. Numb, I crumpled onto the couch across from my sister and Lux. “You offered him his lands back in exchange.”

Varian lowered himself to sit beside me. “I thought it a fair bargain.”

“And have you learned much about Myridia?” Elysa asked. “About their Shardian allies?”

“Indeed,” Varian answered. “There are islands primed to fall. And quite the treasure trove is hidden among them. We think there is one, in particular, that’s holding some rather powerful artifacts.”

At his words, Aidon’s voice filled my head—Ask your beloved about Megaris. Ask him what his armies did there and at Drifton and the Needle. Then you can speak to me about death.

I closed my eyes and leaned against Varian. I tried not to think. So hard, I tried.

Solara asked, “Did you know the Myridian meant to compete for my sister’s hand?”

That got my attention. Lux stared down at my sister with a hunger that had my own stomach tightening. “No, lovely. He kept that plan close to his chest until we got here.” He slid a sideways glance to Varian. “Though I do know of a few other rebels who’d love nothing more than to prevent your mating, cousin. A certain exiled king among them.”

Varian scowled. “Yes, well, we have a long list of enemies. We can speak of that later. Right now, I want to drink.”

On that, we were in agreement.

And so, the night passed. I drank with them and we all pretended that things were right with the world. Only Solara was truly light-hearted. We let her lead the conversation. I was content to sit quietly, my head comfortably resting against Varian’s strong shoulder, as I tried hard to think of nothing else but the comfort of his body and the bright sound of my sister’s voice.

Hours later, Varian walked me to my chamber. But there, loitering before my door, was a red and gold liveried Imperial. Three sunbursts were embroidered on his sleeve, marking him as a captain.

My eyes narrowed. “And who is this?”

“This,” Varian said, “is Eryx. Your new personal guard.”

His hair was streaked with grease, his build sinewy. His crooked nose told a story all its own—it had been broken many times and never set properly. I didn’t even try to school my features into friendliness. The thought of this male shadowing me . . . “Surely this isn’t necessary.”

Varian’s hand tightened on my arm, his thumb drawing a circle on the bare skin of my bicep. “No chances will be taken where your safety is concerned.”

“But—”

“Aurora,” he bit off, “a girl was just murdered. This is not up for debate.”

Without pausing to consider my words, I said, “If you are so sure Aidon is guilty, then what is there to fear?”

He gritted his teeth, vein ticking at his temple, and dropped my arm. “Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And so, frustration a smoldering ember in my gut, I entered my chamber alone, Eryx’s thin shadow darkening the threshold when I shut the door.

The room was dim, only lit by a weak fire in the hearth. With my anger so close to the surface, it took half a thought to bring forth Helios’ flame. The candles dotting the room flickered to life. The chamber was empty, with no hint of Parthenia’s red-orange curls anywhere.

I crumpled onto the bench at the end of my bed with a sigh. And landed on something hard. Pulling the rectangular object from beneath my rear, I frowned. It was wrapped in pink cloth, tied with twine. Beneath the rough bow was a piece of parchment. I carefully extracted it from its wrapping and angled it towards the light. Written in a sharp, angled script, I read:

Daughter of the Dawn,

I must return to my temple, but I wished to thank you for your kindness today. Seeing you heal awoke something in these old bones that has been dormant so long I’d thought it dead—a hope. Please, accept this gift on behalf of myself and all those who follow your mother’s teachings. It is an old book, penned by a Livonian scholar—a Watcher, as they were once called—long ago, before the traditions of the Trials ever began. I hope you can glean some truth from the knowledge within. I hope it helps you to find a happier end than many of the Korai I’ve known in the past.

Hopefully yours,

H- of the Ostara

H? I frowned. It seemed the mysterious priestess was unwilling to even share her name. I put the note aside and unwrapped the book.

As soon as my skin touched the age-worn leather, a jolt of heat went through me. Power awoke in my core as if it recognized this book as kin.

Breathing heavily, I pushed the last fold of fabric away. The binding was dark, its spine cracked in places, but stamped on the cover was a grouping of unfamiliar, slender-petaled flowers.

I gently opened the cover, relieved to find that the Livonian author had not written in his own language, but in Old Dorian runes. I skipped over a history of tribal leaders and accounts of ancient skirmishes until I turned to a full-page illustration. Illuminated in a master’s hand, a female was depicted. The Mark of the Korai graced her brow, but what kept my eyes glued to the page was the silvery light that seemed to emanate from her skin. Her hair was painted in a mass of chaotic ringlets as if she stood in the center of a tempest. And on the opposite page, the heading: Helena, Daughter of Selene.

I paused. This was a legend I knew. One I’d heard since earliest childhood. Helena was a monster—a Korai who had rebelled, who’d gone mad with power. It was said she roamed the mountains still, murdering any unlucky enough to cross her path. Eleutherian mothers told the story to their children, to scare them so they would not wander too far from home.

I rubbed the heels of my hands against my tired eyes and read what seemed to be an archaic ballad:

Once on a time, if legend be believed

A Korai there lived, who long to be freed.

Her life be decided, her fate be bound

To murderer of mate her power found.

So fled, did she, under cover of night

To place where few would suspect her of flight.

But nature won out, her power did roil.

Delving and Casting, her magic uncoiled.

Over sea and mountains her power searched

Until a true mate her magic unearthed.

Inexorable bond, unfightable drive,

Over sea he traveled to claim his bride.

Through steep gorges and impassable peaks

They scratched out a living, they hid in peace.

But nothing lost ever remains unfound.

Relentless, Doria ran them to ground.

But truth is both gift and curse to Korai,

And Helena knew they would make him pay.

Yet death could not sever a bond so true.

And his murder she made Doria rue.

Her revenge unending, still it is said

The Korai hunts the mountains for Dorian heads.

A bit unsteady, I shut the book and crossed to the side table, where I poured a glass of wine. Helena going mad was nothing I’d not heard a thousand times before. But this Delving and Casting? Was that what the illustration had shown? I threw back the drink and poured another.

How long I sat in my room, vacantly staring at the strange flowers embossed upon the book’s cover, I didn’t know, but the thoughts I’d tried so hard to push away all day hit me like a punch to the gut and sleep was slow to find me that night.