Chapter Three · A Hollow Victory

A distorted shadow stretched across a stone wall in the Ashen Dungeon. The dungeon lay beneath the Crucible Arena of the royal palace, its darkness broken only when the lamps were lit for meals.

The shadow moved slowly, heavily, each slight shift dragging metal across the floor in a dry, low scrape.

A soldier stepped in with a metal tray. The roasted meat was still warm, fat dripping from it. He picked up a piece and bit into it, chewing noisily as he glanced toward the shadow, then clicked his tongue.

“This disgusting thing,” he muttered, his voice carrying through the dungeon, “eats better than we do.”

He threw the tray forward. It struck the stone with a clear metallic clang. Meat spilled across the floor.

The soldier turned and walked away, the clang still echoing between the dungeon walls behind him.

There was no reply.

The shadow crouched lower. Piece by piece, the roasted meat slowly disappeared.

Somewhere above, other soldiers moved through the arena tiers, wiping down rows of seats for what was meant to be a grand display.

Not far from there, Princess Lyra stood on the dais between two crystal pillars in the Quartz Canopy Hall. She wore a pink velvet dress, its fitted corset gently defining her waist, its long sleeves hiding the traces of the previous night.

Across the hall, between another pair of crystal pillars, Haris looked at her a moment too long. The corner of his mouth almost curved, then stilled before the smile could take shape. He turned away.

The Queen hosted the banquet, a gathering for the younger members of the royal family. The King and the Chancellor were not in attendance, having spent the morning in council with court officials.

Lyra stood beside the Queen, posture steady, her smile appearing only when needed. Her movements stayed small and careful, sparing her wrist as nobles approached in turn to offer their greetings.

She scanned the hall. Prince Orlas was absent. His seat stood empty.

Musicians played bright, lively tunes, the sound carrying through the hall. Outside, it thinned to a faint echo at the edge of the Royal Palace.

In the Chancellor’s residence, Orlas sat by the window, looking toward the palace.

On the table lay a pair of deerskin arm guards, the stitching still new. He looked at them for a while, his heart heavy, then put them into a drawer.

Orlas rested an arm across his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. Thoughts of Lyra kept pouring in, one after another, no matter how hard he tried to push them away.

She’ll be in the hall now, beneath the lights, with everyone watching.

What if she can’t fight this afternoon... what if what I did has taken that from her?

He let out a long, troubled breath.

She must be hurting so much.

I’ve ruined everything...

The music grew thinner and more distant, as if it belonged to another world. One he had already stepped out of.

But in the hall, it swelled bright and full, wine flashing in the air as cups were raised. The quartz dome scattered the light into slow-turning bands. White veils and crystal strands trembled in the wind.

The Queen gently brushed Lyra’s hair with the feathers at the edge of her silk fan. She leaned closer.

“Does the wound still hurt?”

Lyra glanced down at her hand.

“It’s fine, Mother.”

The Queen’s eyes softened.

“At this afternoon’s proving, don’t push yourself.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Lyra lowered her face. Even she didn’t know how things would unfold.

When the banquet ended, the procession left the Quartz Canopy Hall and crossed the broad court toward the arena on the far side. The sun hung low, casting long bands of gold across the paving.

The stone tiers of the arena rose in successive rings, enclosing the open space at the center. In the sunset light, it looked both magnificent and cold.

Inside, the flags of the fae clans hung along the spectator levels, their colors and emblems set against the dark shields of royal warriors from generations past.

The King and his court had already arrived.

King Eryndar sat on the highest dais, in a silk-cushioned seat set above the tiers. To his right stood the Queen’s chair; to his left, the Chancellor’s. The court gathered close, filling the space around him. The air grew livelier as conversation drifted away from matters of court.

The grand display was about to begin.

An ivory horn sounded, deep and long.

Princess Lyra and the other princes were already assembled along one side of the arena floor, dressed for combat. Across from them stood a gigantic iron gate.

The gate groaned open.

A massive creature stepped out, its broad body clad in overlapping silver scale armor. Though it had spent nearly fifty years in captivity, the armor covering its body still gleamed.

The entire arena turned its attention to it.

All four of its legs were bound with iron chains, each movement dragging metal over stone. Its wings folded close to its back, trembling.

Its mouth was sewn nearly shut with crooked black stitches, each one pulled tight, leaving only narrow gaps along the line.

A prince pointed.

“Look. The Silent Beast.”

The creature lifted its head and let out a long, muffled roar.

Its gaze swept across the princes, then settled on Lyra.

The princes moved at once, each trying to outdo the rest. Magic flared.

Lyra darted to the side, keeping out of the path of their attacks.

Lightning tore through the air. Fire rose in pillars. Water crashed in wild surges.

The chains shrieked. The beast staggered beneath the barrage, but it did not fall.

It stepped back one pace and braced itself.

The crowd’s roar swelled.

Then faded.

Above, the King, the Queen, and the Chancellor watched intently.

As the barrage ended, Princess Lyra darted forward.

She drew her sword.

The blade slid from its sheath with a sharp hiss.

Lyra turned and raised her sword to strike.

Just as the blade lifted, sharp pain tore through her arm, a thin vibration pulsing beneath her skin. She tried to keep hold of the sword, but her arm gave out.

The sword dropped to the stone floor.

A clang rang out.

The stands fell silent.

The King and Queen held their breath.

Syveris did not. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, too slight for anyone to see.

Not far behind Lyra, Haris’s brow tightened for the briefest moment.

What’s wrong with her?

A few of the princes smirked at each other.

Heat rushed to her face as the murmurs began.

For a heartbeat, she wished the ground would swallow her.

Then she picked up the sword and moved to the side of the arena.

Her back pressed to the cold stone wall as she tried to steady her breathing.

There’s no shame in this. I still have a chance.

Once Lyra had moved safely aside, Haris moved to the center of the arena. Then he rose into the air, hovering above the floor.

He lifted both hands, turning them toward each other.

A low murmur swelled through the air.

Moisture gathered and twisted into streams around his arms.

The air grew damp and cold.

The beast turned its head. The chains tightened with a screech.

Haris swung his hand.

A stream of water shot forward. It froze midair in an instant.

The mass formed, twisted, and tore forward in a flash. It drove straight into the beast’s chest. Frost spread outward across the silver scales. The creature flew backward, slamming onto the stone floor.

The ground trembled.

The stands erupted. Cheers collided and echoed in waves.

Lyra stood at the side of the arena, breathing hard. Her ears still rang from the impact. Her eyes stayed on the beast’s motionless body.

Victory?

Crack.

The beast raised a curved claw and drove it against the ice covering its chest.

The ice shattered.

The crowd held its breath.

The beast surged upright.

Its enormous body trembled. The chains pulled tight.

The stone floor cracked beneath its weight.

Its chest heaved violently.

Its sewn mouth twitched. The enchanted threads strained.

A muffled roar tore through the arena.

Haris held his ground. The other princes stepped back by reflex, armor knocking against armor.

The beast shifted its weight forward, preparing to charge.

The King remained seated, composed as ever, his attention fixed on the arena below.

Beside him, Chancellor Syveris betrayed nothing.

The Queen shifted slightly, her eyes moving briefly from the beast to Lyra.

Lyra steadied herself, her arm still aching. She gripped the hilt with both hands and lowered her stance, ready to fight again.

All right. I won’t fail this time.

She inhaled and held her breath as she searched the beast for an opening.

Near its hind leg, a narrow gap between the silver scales caught the light.

She forced the pain down. Her body moved before thought could form.

Lyra ran, circling behind the beast.

She turned.

Sprang upward.

Swung.

The blade cut clean across the gap in the armor.

Blood sprayed out.

The beast tried to roar, but the sound broke against the tight black stitches across its mouth.

Its body convulsed. The chains trembled.

It collapsed to the ground.

On the highest dais, the King sprang to his feet.

His voice rang out, overpowering the entire arena:

“Well done, my daughter!”

The arena erupted.

Cheers and applause crashed together, rolling into waves.

The Queen rose as well. But she took a step back. Her gaze did not drop to the arena floor.

Her hand clenched tightly.

The fan closed.

Syveris gave a few slow claps, one corner of his mouth barely lifting.

Impressive.

Even injured, she can still land a strike that precise.

I underestimated her.

Then his face went cold again, as if no expression had ever been there.

Below in the arena, relief and joy surged through Lyra all at once.

Her eyes lifted toward the King.

Father… I did it.

At last, she knew what it felt like to be acknowledged.

But the moment did not last.

A voice slipped into her mind.

It hurts...

She froze.

The voice was right at her ear. It belonged to no one there.

You are truly cruel...

The burn on her wrist throbbed harder.

The crowd kept roaring. The noise surged around her.

For a moment, time stopped.

The beast’s eyes locked on hers. Something in that gaze held her still.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

The sword in her hand suddenly felt too heavy.

Soldiers flooded into the arena and seized the chains, dragging the beast away.

A streak of blood stretched across the floor.

She did not move.

Revulsion stirred in her gut.

It’s just a beast.

The thought came quickly. It did not stay.

What did I just do?

Through the main gate, the King, the Chancellor, and the court departed in turn. The crowd filed out through the side gates.

The Queen lingered in the stands a moment longer before instructing an attendant to summon Obewich to escort Lyra back.

Lyra noticed none of it.

Only after the other princes had gone did Haris approach her.

“Not bad.”

Lyra barely seemed to hear him.

Haris turned away. Then he slowed.

His head angled back slightly, as if something in her silence had caught him.

She should have been smiling, accepting the victory that was hers.

Instead, her gaze remained fixed on the dungeon gate.

Haris watched her for one more beat. One foot shifted. He wanted to turn back. But then he walked on.

Alone in the hollow arena, Lyra remained where she was.

What did I just hear?

Her chest tightened.

The hilt felt heavier in her hand than it should have been.

I won.

But something inside me still won’t settle.

Lyra swayed.

Her vision blurred.

Her fingers loosened, and the sword slipped from her hand. It struck the floor with a dull clang.

It did not feel like victory.