The High Gallery is a room of cold glass and ancient bone, perched so high in the Spire that the clouds of the Nocturne drift past the windows like tattered ghosts. Here, the sons and daughters of the Sanguine Court gather to learn the things that immortals find useful: the lineage of the moon, the mathematics of shadow, and the history of the Great Shroud.
I sit at my desk, my fingers tracing the jagged edge of the wood. Beside me, Hestia is meticulously taking notes, her handwriting neat and perfect, as if by being the perfect student she can trick the world into forgetting she is human.
I cannot trick anyone. I don't want to.
My mind is still in the training courts, feeling the phantom weight of a sword in my hand. I am seventeen, a mayfly in a city of stone statues. To the vampires, ten years is a lunch break. To me, it is a lifetime. It is the distance between a girl who cried for her mother and a girl who sleeps with a silver dagger under her pillow.
The professor, an Elder with skin like cracked parchment named Master Thorne, drones on about the Treaty of the Vein. He speaks of the "necessary sacrifices" humans made to ensure peace. He doesn't mention the screams. He doesn't mention the blood-debt that never seems to be paid in full.
Across the aisle, Vane is leaning back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. He catches my eye and mouths the word Cattle.
I don't look away. I've learned that in the Nocturne, if you look down, they think you're praying. If you look up, they think you're hunting. I'd rather they think I'm hunting.
"The mortality of the human race is their greatest flaw," Master Thorne says, his voice dry as dead leaves. "They are governed by fear because their time is so short. They are like candles in a hurricane."
"Some candles burn hot enough to start a fire," I mutter, loud enough for only Hestia to hear. She nudges me with her elbow, her eyes wide with warning.
When the lecture finally ends, the room fills with the rustle of silk and the clicking of boots. I pack my things quickly, wanting to get to the sparring mats before the crowd, but a shadow falls over my desk.
It's not just one shadow. It's four.
Caspian, Vane, Karys, and Lucian.
Caspian stands in the center, his black crown of thorns catching the dim light. He looks bored, his dark eyes wandering the room as if he's looking for something worth destroying. Vane is the one who steps forward, reaching out a pale, manicured hand to pluck the ribbon from the end of my braid.
He does it so fast I don't even see him move. My hair spills over my shoulder in a messy tangle.
"Give it back," I say, my voice low and dangerous.
Vane grins, showing the sharp, needle-like points of his fangs. "It's a lovely color, Elara. Red. Like the blood you're so desperate to keep inside your veins."
"Vane," Caspian says. He hasn't moved, but the air in the room suddenly feels ten degrees colder. He looks at me, his gaze tracing the line of my jaw, the pulse in my neck. "You're bothering the General's pet. Valerius might take it personally."
"She's not a pet," Hestia says, her voice small but brave. "She's a ward."
Karys lets out a sharp, melodic laugh. "A ward. How quaint. Like a stray cat that's been taught to sit at the table." She leans in close to me, the scent of sea salt and old blood clinging to her. "Tell me, Elara, do you actually think you'll be knighted? Do you think they'll let a human wear the silver of the High Guard?"
"I'll wear whatever I take," I say.
Vane laughs and drops my ribbon. Before I can reach for it, he grinds his heavy, silver-toed boot into the silk, smearing it with the dust of the gallery floor. He leans down, his face inches from mine. "You are a fly, Elara. You buzz and you bother us, but at the end of the day, you are easily swatted."
Caspian steps forward then, pushing Vane aside. He looks down at the ruined ribbon, then up at me. There is something in his expression that I can't read—a flicker of something that isn't quite hate, but is far more terrifying.
"You have such a high opinion of yourself," Caspian whispers. "You think you are iron. But iron is just metal that hasn't met a hot enough flame yet."
He reaches out, his cold fingers brushing against the iron ring on my hand. He winces, the metal stinging his skin, but he doesn't pull away immediately. He stares at the ring, then at my eyes.
"One day," he says, his voice a ghost of a sound. "You will beg me to stop. And I won't."
He turns and walks away, his friends falling into step behind him. Lucian lingers for a second, looking at me with those tawny, unreadable eyes. He doesn't say anything, but he gives a small, mocking bow before following the others.
I stand there, my hands shaking with a fury so cold it feels like ice. I pick up the ruined ribbon and shove it into my pocket.
"Let's go," Hestia says, her voice trembling. "Please, Elara. Let's just go."
I followed her out of the Gallery, but I didn't look back. I don't need to. I know they are watching me. I know they are waiting for me to break.
They think I am a candle in a hurricane. They don't realize that in a hurricane, the only thing that stays upright is the thing that's made of stone.
And I have been turning to stone for ten long years.
I stand in the center of my room, the ruined ribbon still clutched in my hand. Through the window, the Spire of Thorns looms, a jagged needle stitching the dark sky. To stay here, in the shadows of Valerius's house, is to wait for the day the Prince and his friends finally decide to finish what they started.
I don't want to wait anymore.
I think of the Sanguine Tournament. In three nights, the High King will open the arena for the blood-moon games. It is a series of trials meant to showcase the strength, speed, and lethality of the vampire noble houses. It is where knights are chosen for the High Guard. It is where the "worthless" are separated from the "worthy."
No human has ever entered. No human has ever been foolish enough to try.
"You're thinking about it," a voice says from the doorway.
I turn to see Ivy leaning against the frame, her arms crossed. Her storm-purple eyes are fixed on the silver dagger in my hand. She doesn't look horrified like Hestia; she looks intrigued.
"They'll kill you, Elara," Ivy says, her voice flat. "They won't even use blades. They'll use their hands, or their teeth, or they'll just move so fast you'll be dead before you hear your own heart stop."
"They might," I admit. "But if I win—if I even place—the High King has to grant a boon. I could ask for a knighthood. I could ask for protection that even Valerius can't override. I could finally be something other than a 'pet.'"
Ivy steps into the room, her movements fluid and silent. She reaches out and takes the dagger from my hand, testing the edge with her thumb. "Caspian will be there. He's the favorite to win the grand melee. He'll take it as a personal insult if you step onto that sand."
"Good," I say, and for the first time today, I feel a cold, sharp smile touch my lips. "I want him to be insulted. I want him to look at me and see something he can't swat."
Ivy hands the dagger back, hilt-first. "Valerius won't allow it. He'll lock you in the Spire before he lets you embarrass the house by dying in front of the King."
"Then he won't know," I say. "Until I'm already in the arena. Until the herald calls my name."
I spend the rest of the night preparing. I don't look at my schoolbooks. I look at my armor—the light, reinforced leather Valerius gave me for practice. I sharpen my blades until they can split a hair. I check the hidden pockets in my boots for the small vials of salt and iron filings that can buy a human a few precious seconds of a vampire's hesitation.
The next evening, I make my way to the registration hall. It is a cavernous room lined with the banners of the great houses. The air is thick with the scent of ancient blood and cold stone. The registrar is a vampire so old his skin looks like translucent paper. He doesn't even look up as I approach.
"Name and House," he rasps, his quill hovering over a scroll of vellum.
"Elara," I say, my voice echoing in the silence. "Of the House of the General."
The quill stops. The registrar looks up, his milky eyes narrowing as he takes in my warm skin, my round ears, my very human defiance.
"The tournament is for the Folk," he says, a sneer curling his lip. "Not for the cattle."
"The rules state that any child of a High House may enter to prove their worth," I counter, leaning over the desk. I tap the signet ring on my finger—the one Valerius gave me to show I am under his protection. "I am a child of the Spire. Register me, or I'll tell the General you've forgotten how to read your own laws."
The registrar's jaw tightens. With a sharp, angry flick of his wrist, he scratches my name into the vellum. It looks small and fragile next to the long, ancient names of the vampire lords.
"Trial by combat," he mutters. "I hope the cleaners are ready. Human blood is so difficult to get out of the sand."
I turn and walk away, my head held high. As I exit the hall, I see Lucian standing by one of the pillars. He's been watching the whole time. He pushes off the stone, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face.
"So, the little bird wants to fly," Lucian says. "Or perhaps she just wants to fall."
"Watch me," I say, stepping past him.
"Oh, I will be watching, Elara," he calls after me. "But remember—the Prince doesn't like to share his toys. And the arena is his favorite playground."
I don't look back. I walk into the eternal night of the city, my heart beating a frantic, rhythmic drum against my ribs. I am afraid. I am terrified. But for the first time in ten years, I am not invisible.
I am a competitor. And in three nights, the Nocturne will learn that even a candle can burn the whole world down if you give it enough air.