Page 21 of From the Mouths of Sirens

“You look stunning,” he said with an appraising smile. “Isme, she's all yours.”

Isme grabbed a few glass jars from one of her trunks, sitting in front of Saoirse. She first dusted flecks of gold across her cheekbones, the fine powder sitting on her skin like stardust. Isme then swept strokes of shimmering paints across her eyelids and lined her lashes with dark kohl. Nodding to herself and dipping her brushes into various pots of color, Isme continued meticulously, as detail-oriented as any artist. As a finishing touch, she painted Saoirse’s lips with a deep blue paint, one that matched the stunning hue of her gown. With a nod of satisfaction, Isme helped her stand.

Two more attendants came forward, holding the beautiful dress she would wear to the banquet between them. Saoirse’s breath caught in her throat. The gown was adorned with the same pearls that were pinned in her hair. Intricate lace detailing trimmed the bodice, hand-sewn by her attendants. Sewn into the dress, small flowers and seashells represented the beauty found in the Maeral Sea. The plunging neckline was trimmed with shining strands of pearls and shells. Delicate sleeves billowed out from the shoulders, almost sheer in the light. The gown fell to the floor in a cascade of blue and green, mimicking the movement of waves.

They carefully slipped it over her head, smoothing out the fabric and unfurling the small train at the back. It fit her like a glove. Saoirse turned to look at herself in the mirror, smiling when she saw her reflection. She had never been more proud to wear a gown in all her life. She wore the Maeral Sea draped across her body, the flowers and pearls adorning her acting as small reminders of home. She stepped forward, mesmerized by how the gown shimmered and rippled like the surface of glittering azure waves. Under the translucent sleeves that cinched together at her wrists, the pale blue scales on her arms seemed to glow in the light. In her finery, Saoirse was proud of who she was.

She was proud to be Mer.

Her attendants stood smiling before her, tears in many of their eyes.

“You’re radiant,” Isme said proudly, a glistening tear sliding down her cheek. “You represent our people well, Princess Saoirse.”

“There’s just one more thing,” Appolon interrupted, pulling something out from one of the trunks. He unwrapped a delicate silver crown. The air in the room seemed to change as he approached her. Saoirse’s chest tightened at the sight of the beautiful diadem.

Her mother’s crown. He carefully placed it on her brow, tucking stray curls around it. Saoirse turned back to their mirror, her heart softening at the sight of her mother’s diadem on her own head. Metal leaves wove together like a laurel wreath, only a few small jewels scattered across the crown. It was a small, simple piece of craftsmanship. But it was somehow the most beautiful thing she wore.

“Perfect,” Isme breathed, more tears leaking from her eyes. “May glory be given,” she added, a shadow of darkness passing over her face.

“May glory be given,” every attendant repeated solemnly, their chorus of voices echoing across the room. Then they began bowing, lowering their brows to the floor.

“You will win,” Isme whispered, taking Saoirse’s hand in her own and squeezing it tightly. “You will survive,” she assured her, her voice thick with emotion. “You will restore Elorshin’s former glory.” Murmurs of agreement shuddered through the room.

May glory be given... May glory be given...May glory be given.

11

ROOK

Rook downed his third glass of wine, wincing at the smooth burn. The day of the banquet had not gone at all how he had planned. Hasana’s brazen words still rattled through his head, churning through him like the unruly bluster of a storm front. He hated how much her words had broken him, how much they had continued to form cracks in his beliefs hours later. He gazed out at the sweep of brilliant stars against the dark night sky, refilling his glass again. Gazing up at the bright clusters of stars, he quickly identified several constellations. There was the Tellusun huntress Vasia, her bow raised to the heavens. It was her arrow that was said to have pierced the heart of Ouran, one of the mad Titans of Old. Then there was the great basilisk Ventus, his jaws glittering with rows of star-studded teeth. His eyes caught on his favorite constellation of them all: the warrior Aris, his mighty feathered wings spread across the sky. He and Raven had memorized the constellations as children, sometimes flying as high as they could so that they could touch them.

“Take it easy,” Eros ordered, coming up to the window beside him. “Save some drink for the actual banquet, brother.”

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” Rook asked quietly, staring out at the glowing courtyard below. “Why do we pretend like we aren’t going to be after each other’s throats in a day? Why must we look these people in the eyes, knowing that they will be our enemies in the arena?” He set the glass down, crossing the open throne room and striding to the grand staircase. Eros grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“What are you saying, Rook?” he asked, looking him squarely in the eye. “We’ve trained for this our whole lives, and suddenly you’re getting cold feet? You sound like those bloody Terradrin revolutionaries,” Eros muttered with a hint of warning in his voice.

“You know exactly what I’m saying. We go down those steps and greet them with false smiles across our faces. We share drinks with them, watch each other eat tiny pastries and chat about the weather. We pretend that we can be friends down there. But on the inside, we are all plotting how we might slit each other’s throats, should the chance present itself in the trials,” Rook stated darkly. “We smile, acting like we don’t have a century of bad blood and political rivalries between us.”

“We do it to offer Revelore the promise of hope,” Veila interrupted, stepping out of the shadows. She was wearing an exquisite dress of deep green, so different from the traditional Aerial attire he was used to seeing her in. She came up beside them, looking down at the banquet tables spread out below.

“The banquet shows the other nations that they are our equals. It shows them that we can all converse and be cordial with one another. We dance with them, serve them a feast, and extend our hands in peace. Without it, our rivals wouldn’t feel like they have a chance of winning the Tournament. The banquet gives them hope. At this feast, we all eat from the same tables. Who is to say who the next champion of Revelore might be? Under the same stars, it could be any of us.”

“And do you believe that?” Rook demanded in a near whisper. “Do you believe they are our equals and that they have any chance of winning? This hope we give them- it's nothing but a trick. If one of the Terradrin or Tellusun tributes won, do you really think we would step aside and give them ownership of Revelore?” He paused, letting his words sink in. “No, we would continue fighting for the right to rule, even past the arena and the trials.”

“An interesting opinion, to question the sanctity of our games,” Veila murmured. “For the sake of gamesmanship, I suggest you keep these musings private,” she warned darkly. “If your words become treasonous, we would be powerless to stop any punishment that might befall you.” A foreboding gust of wind whipped through the open-aired throne room, whispering through the halls.

“Let’s go,” Eros said to Veila, heading for the grand staircase. He gave Rook a disappointed glance. “See you down there.”

Rook watched as his friends descended down the stairs, Veila’s dress spilling down the staircase as she strode beside Eros. He sighed, feeling suddenly guilty for burdening them with his questions. He gazed back up at the stars, the clearest view of them in all of Revelore.

Enough of this, he ordered himself. Hasana had poisoned his mind with little arrows of doubt. He would not give in to her deception and lies. He knew the truth.

“Little brother,” Raven’s calming voice called from behind him. Rook turned, watching as Raven emerged from the throne room. She was dressed in a magnificent gown, a brilliant crown on her brow. Her deep violet dress was pulled to one shoulder, clasped together by a glittering medallion of gold. Her black hair was piled high on her head, intricate braids woven throughout. She wore gold circlets around her bare arms and shining metal cuffs on her wrists. She was the very image of a regal monarch.

“I trust you haven’t been getting into any trouble tonight?” Raven said with a wink. Gone was all the darkness from their conversation in the library earlier. Now, only warmth seemed to emanate from his sister. She tucked her arm under his, leading him to the stairs.

“Come now,” he answered her, “you really think I would turn down a bit of trouble if the opportunity arose?”

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