The next few days passed uneventfully. Cresana found herself deeply unsettled by this. She had initially thought of her unique experience in the Trial as something of a novelty, and she had (unconsciously) expected some accompanying pomp and circumstance. She thought she would have at least seen The Evaluators or General Kirigan, someone to explain to her the reasons for this radical departure from tradition.

But no one came.

Cresana was occasionally visited by what she assumed were Little Palace servants. They changed the sheets on the bed, but once they realized Cresana preferred to sleep on the floor next to the balcony with the doors flung open to feel the nighttime breeze on her face, they stopped fussing over the bed sheets. They brought warm bath water, fresh flowers to decorate the gold gilded armoire in the far back corner of her chamber, and an assortment of books that Cresana idly leafed through. Lastly, they brought her fresh clothing, although she found the clothes ludicrously luxurious and longed for the simple functionality of her Blade uniform. She also felt a sting of resentment that her weapons had not been made available to her.

She tried to shake the unsettling feeling that crept in her thoughts that she was more a prisoner than a guest in the Little Palace. She was never invited out of her chamber, and although she did not press the matter, she had a suspicion that her request would have been graciously denied. She also recognized the unmistakable sounds of breathing outside her door at night, signaling to her that someone had posted two guards outside her chamber. To keep her in, or to keep others out, she wasn't entirely sure.

Although idle time was not something she had much of at The Institute, Cresana didn't allow herself to get bored. She spent long hours on her balcony, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the lavishly manicured courtyard. Although the reading material the servants provided her with was far from her typical battle strategy and military tactics reading, she didn't mind some of the books. One was an intricately illustrated guide to the local flora and fauna; the pang of regret from her failure to pay attention in botany and the associated missteps of her Trial convinced Cresana to brush up on this knowledge. She used the book to identify as many of the flowers, birds, and insects she could see from her balcony, although many of the plants were unknown to her. She decided they were likely foreign seeds that had been cultivated here for beauty. She made intricate sketches of them in a small sketchbook the servants had provided her with, and she resolved to identify them once she had ampler knowledge to do so.

Although training without weapons was not as desirable as with, Cresana continued her usual daily routine of several hours of physical conditioning and hand-to-hand fighting drills. It was difficult to do in her chambers, but after pushing the furniture against the walls of the room, she found she was able to create a space large enough for rudimentary training. Although the servants were initially insistent on rearranging the furniture to its original position, they eventually got tired of doing so every morning and stopped.

Almost two weeks passed like this.

Despite her best intentions, Cresana became restless. She could feel her muscles cramping from a lack of proper use. Her racing thoughts were becoming difficult to quiet, and the urge to escape from her chamber (which, Cresana noted with a hint of indignation, was laughably easy) became overwhelming.

She tried to engage the servants in conversation, hoping to get them to inadvertently reveal some piece of information that would clue her in on her future. Her efforts were in vain, however. The servants seemed frightened of her, and they didn't tarry in her chambers. They often gave mumbled, vague replies in response to her questions. Several of them plainly refused to speak to her, often fixing her with a wide-eyed stare and simply shaking their heads as if expecting some sort of corporeal punishment for talking to her. Although their reticence angered her at first, Cresana slowly came to wonder if maybe there was some punishment promised to the servants if they were seen to be fraternizing with her. In light of this realization, Cresana stopped trying to engage them, and they seemed grateful for it.

Just when Cresana began to consider an escape, a knock at her chamber door disturbed her reverie.

Although custom would assume a knock was a request to enter, this knock was immediately followed by her door swinging open. Cresana wasn't surprised; she was quite convinced now that her stay at the Little Palace was being treated less like a guest of honor's visit and more of a detention.

In strode the Heartrender named Ivan, clad in his red kafta. Cresana noticed he seemed burdened; the bags under his eyes betrayed a lack of sleep and his posture was hunched. His eyes darted around her chamber nervously, ultimately coming to rest uneasily on the floor in front of Cresana.

"You're requested."

The statement was not a question, but a command. Cresana grit her teeth against the indignant response rising in her throat. She had been prepared at The Institute for Grisha to assume that Blades could be commanded, and The Evaluators had assured their pupils that this fallacy would only last for a short while. Once the Grisha saw the Blades' training and immeasurable value on the battlefield, that haughtiness and misguided sense of superiority would vanish like smoke.

She nodded simply and stepped towards Ivan, waiting to be led to her destination. She couldn't deny that her curiosity was piqued, and she longed to see as much of the Little Palace as she could, and hopefully learn more about why she was here.

Ivan held out a hand gruffly, palm facing towards Cresana in a gesture of irritation.

"Put a robe on," he growled. Cresana bristled once again at the command in his voice.

She cast a glance at the pile of sateen, linen, and silk garments that the servants had piled on the edge of her bed. She hadn't bothered to look at any of them, preferring instead to remain unencumbered in the simple black bandeau and knit trousers she wore under her fighting cowl at The Institute. After practically threatening one of the meeker maids to produce the garments Cresana had worn for her Trial, she had been presented with just the undergarments she had worn daily at The Institute underneath the Blades' standard issue black cowl, black leather bracers, and soft-soled slippers. Although she felt exposed and a bit chilly without the full coverage of her cowl, these garments were familiar to here and, most importantly, they didn't interfere with her training drills. She had also been exceedingly grateful that the servants hadn't noticed the needle-thin blades she had sewn surreptitiously into the side seams of her trousers.

The last thing Cresana wanted to do was to sacrifice mobility or easy access to these weapons on her first foray out of her chambers. She had no idea what – or who – was summoning her, and she refused to be caught unawares or to lose even a fraction of her fighting ability in the name of silk keftas or linen gowns.

"No," she retorted. Her chin jutted out and her eyes narrowed slightly, challenging Ivan to use that same commanding growl.

Ivan's eyes came up to meet hers. She was struck once again by how utterly exhausted he look. Nevertheless, she recognized a blaze of hatred behind his eyes. That blaze, although it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a blank and uninterested mask, confirmed everything Cresana needed to know. She was not a guest here at the Little Palace, nor was her unusual Trial something to celebrate. That gnawing thought at the back of her mind sharpened and came into full focus. 'I'm a prisoner here,' she silently confirmed to herself. 'I am not amongst friends.' She felt her muscles tense ever so slightly, and she willed her mind to settle as she allowed her senses to heighten. The mental rigors of The Institute had prepared her well for situations such as these, and although disquieted by this turn of events, she not surprised nor particularly frightened. She knew that, despite being surrounded by Grisha power, she could handle herself if needed.

As she regarded Ivan cautiously, she watched him turn over the situation in his mind. He seemed to wrestle with the choice before him: allow her to flagrantly disobey what was obviously expected to be a command and lose face, or take the path of least resistance and turn her disobedience over to whoever was waiting to receive her. After a moment, he shook his head ever so slightly, smirked a bit, and turned to leave her chambers, motioning for her to follow.

"Suit yourself," he stated. "She can deal with you."