Tora darted forward the instant the director’s coughing fit shifted from dignified to concerning, moving with the quick, fluttering panic of someone who’d spent years anticipating that exact sound.
His robe flared as he nearly tripped over himself, fishing a folded cloth from some hidden pocket before offering it to Thalen like a priest presenting an offering to a temperamental god.
The director snatched it without a word, pressed it to his mouth, and coughed—wet and rattling—into the fabric. I could see the faint stain blooming through it from where I stood.
Tora’s hand hovered behind his back, steadying him, though the boy’s touch faltered every few seconds as if he wasn’t certain whether he was allowed to touch him at all. Probably because Thalen looked like the type of man who’d bite if handled incorrectly.
I found myself watching the two of them closely, not because of the blood, the spectacle, or the absurdity of it all, but because of that flicker—something between them I couldn’t name. Respect? Fear? A strange kind of devotion wrapped in dread?
Thalen regained his breath long enough to lift his head, eyes flicking between us with the clarity of someone who refused to let physical frailty tamper with the authority he wielded.
"Three days," he rasped, voice scraping like gravel through stone. "Your match will be held three days from now. I expect it to be... educational." He waved vaguely, as though the concept of ’education’ was too beneath him to bother clarifying. "May the Velvet Chambers benefit whichever one of you survives your own foolishness."
Survives? Saints, he said survives. I prayed to every irrelevant celestial being that he meant that metaphorically. Knowing my luck, he absolutely did not.
He coughed again, doubling over slightly, and Tora immediately slipped his arm around the old man’s shoulders. This time the boy hesitated a little less, though the tremor in his fingers remained, soft and nervous.
He guided Thalen gently, carefully, toward the wheelchair waiting near the hall’s entrance. Their movements meshed, smooth despite the imbalance between them—Tora small and lithe, Thalen a bundle of sharp bones wrapped in authority and irritation.
The director lowered himself into the chair with an ease that almost felt practiced, as though the body’s limitations were merely another tool he manipulated at will. His expression settled into something composed again, that faint gleam in his eye returning like a star behind a moonlit cloud.
Tora circled behind him, gripping the wheelchair’s handles, and paused. Really paused. His gaze lifted, drifting until it locked onto mine.
And there—right there—something sharp and electric flickered across his face, so sudden it felt like the air between us cracked. Recognition, or something far more dangerous, surged in his eyes as if he were staring at a ghost wearing my skin—one he never expected to meet again in this lifetime.
I felt that flicker too, something tugging at the deepest part of me, a half-formed recollection, something I couldn’t name but felt like the brush of a fingertip along the edge of an old scar.
His lips parted as if he meant to speak.
"Tora," Thalen snapped suddenly.
Crack!
The cane smacked the boy on the back of the head with the sharpness of a punctuation mark. Tora jolted like a startled cat, yelping a sound that was—gods help me—almost adorable. His cheeks flushed pink as he stammered, "S-sorry, sir! Right away, sir—!"
"Yes, yes, don’t just stand around looking like a startled fish," Thalen grumbled, waving one hand dismissively. "Some of us would like to reach our quarters before death claims us."
And just like that, they were off, rolling back down the hall, the director muttering under his breath, the boy pushing him with those still-blushing cheeks and a stolen glance over his shoulder.
And me?
I stood there, dumbfounded. Completely disarmed. The weight of everything I’d just agreed to pressed down on my chest with the softness of a silk pillow and the dread of a falling boulder.
A match. In three days.
With my ascent, my future, my entire chance at power hanging in the balance. The ambition, the hunger, the hatred—they all braided together inside me like wildfire looking for a place to burn.
But all of that was only half of what churned in my head.
The other half?
The director’s promise. His personal assistance. Saints above. The implications of that alone could completely rewrite my fate.
And then there was Tora. The way he’d looked at me. The way that flicker had felt in my chest. I knew that look. And I hated that I couldn’t remember why.
We were sent back to the barracks an hour later with papers to sign, rules to study, and the vague threat of the Labyrinth still echoing in every shadow.
The walk there was quiet—dangerously quiet—broken only by the occasional squeak of Elvina’s shoes or the lingering tremors in my knees.
When we finally reached the barracks, the lanterns were already dimming into that low amber glow that always made the metal bunks look like cages in a storybook.
Elvina climbed the ladder to her top bunk with all the grace of a drunken ferret, casting me side-eyed daggers the entire way. I climbed to mine across from her, settling back against the thin mattress, staring up at the low ceiling and trying not to think too hard about how the entire room smelled faintly of iron and old sweat.
The moment our gazes met, she let out a soft, almost triumphant sound—somewhere between a laugh and a hiss—like she’d been waiting for the silence just so she could break it.
"Well," she purred, dangling one leg off the side of her bed, "looks like you’re dead in three days."
I didn’t even bother responding at first. I just stared at her with the blankest expression I could muster, letting my head fall back against the pillow as dramatically as possible. "Elvina," I sighed, "you’ve been waiting the whole hour to say that, haven’t you?"
"Maybe," she chirped, kicking her foot. "Did it land?"
"No."
"It absolutely did."
"It really didn’t."
She clicked her tongue and rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands as she glared at me. "I’m going to enjoy bashing your brains into the floor you know..."
I rolled my eyes. "I’m sure Quentin said something similar," I muttered, "and look where he is now. Probably lying in the infirmary icing his balls."
She snorted. "Quentin’s nothing but a fragile sack of shit wrapped in his own delusions. I, however, am blessed."
"With what? A talent for whining?"
"With divine superiority," she corrected smugly.
I sunk deeper into my pillow with a groan loud enough to echo off the walls. "Elvina, please, I’m too tired to verbally duel with a feral housecat right now."
She cackled at that, delighted, but didn’t push further. Instead, she curled into her blanket, head poking out like a smug little gremlin, eyes glinting in the lanternlight as she stared at me. "You’re worried," she said after a moment, voice quieting.
I didn’t answer.
"You should be," she added.
I ignored her...again.
She giggled, rolled over, then settled in. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Heavy. But it was ours.
I shut my eyes and exhaled, forcing myself to breathe evenly. Three days. I had three days to prepare, three days to figure out how to fight Elvina without letting her grind my bones into the floor for fun with that hidden magic of hers.
Tomorrow, I decided, will be the day I solve at least two of the mysteries clawing at the back of my mind. Her power. Iskanda’s ruby.
And perhaps... just maybe... whatever Tora represented.
The barracks lights dimmed entirely then, the warm amber sinking into darkness like a curtain falling on a stage. Elvina muttered something smug and incoherent into her pillow, and I rolled onto my side, pulling the thin blanket over my shoulder.
My last thought before drifting off?
That if I didn’t claw my way to victory out of this upcoming disaster... then Elvina was going to dance on my grave wearing my spine like a fashion accessory.
And with that wonderfully comforting dread warming my chest like a dying campfire, I slipped—slowly, reluctantly—into sleep.