Page 56 of From the Mouths of Sirens

“I was close to claiming the dark pearl as my own a hundred years ago,” the Sea Witch told her. “Until your great grandfather Isandros hid it from me and enlisted Kaja to guard it in her Trench,” she spat with disgust. Saoirse blanched, her jaw falling open.

“You made it so easy, Saoirse,” Selussa chortled. “You did all the work and brought it right to me in the Fretum. As the moon, I shine full and round; my mysteries of creation abound,” she recited. “I am impenetrable as stone and ancient as titan’s bone. In a deathless cave I hide, biding my time for the right eyes.”

“Even if you tried, you never would have gotten it, would you?” Saoirse asked, realization dawning on her.

“You are correct. Thanks to an enchantment, the pearl could only be retrieved by an offspring of Lorsan; it was simply waiting for the right eyes,” Selussa offered. “But your lineage was not only useful in freeing the pearl from Kaja’s Trench. Your blood also freed me from the Fretum,” she laughed. “When I was banished for my crimes, Isandros made it so that only his heirs could release me. When you give your blood to me, you practically handed me the key.”

Selussa’s words all those weeks ago rushed back to her, suddenly making sense: “Blood is more valuable than gold. It can unlock doors and seal promises. It can bring great fortune and favor, but it can be spilled so easily.” Selussa had truly manipulated her as easily as a puppet dancing on strings. She was so blinded by the desire to win the Tournament that she gave everything she had without a second thought.

“Will you go after the Crown?” Saoirse asked contemptuously. “That will be the ultimate prize, will it not?”

“Of course not,” Selussa scoffed. “That Crown is meaningless. It’s just an empty symbol. The rulers of Revelore have always possessed the Relics, but never knew what valuable items they truly had. You’ve all been blinded by desire for a hollow Crown, when the Relics of power have laid right under your noses.” She smirked, a hideous twist of her mouth. “But I would expect nothing less from your kind, mere shadows of your creators.”

Saoirse lunged, unable to contain her fury any longer. She raised her sword and swung it at Selussa’s heart. Selussa moved faster than lightning, deftly avoiding her blade and whispering across the tent like a wraith. She moved in the shadows, her black eyes shining. Saoirse lunged again, swinging her blade at the Sea Witch once more. Selussa spun on her heels and grabbed Saoirse’s arm, twisting it with the otherworldly strength of a Titan. Saoirse screamed as the Witch threw her to the ground, her sword falling from her grasp. Selussa snatched her weapon and effortlessly snapped the blade in two. She gasped as Selussa held her down with an invisible wind, struggling against her unyielding hold. She struggled to break free, but her muscles were petrified like stone.

“Your companions will die in that arena,” Selussa whispered in her ear, her voice venomous. “The Titans demand a sacrifice, and their blood shall be spilt by the end of the trial. My Order shall ensure that I possess all the Relics.”

“Order?” Saoirse managed to choke out, even as she writhed on the floor. “What Order?”

Selussa grinned, pinning her to the floor even harder. Her snaking shadows curved around Saoirse’s feet and wrists. “The Elders serve me, Princess. Their ancient Order was founded by those still loyal to the Titans, not by the Four Kinsmen,” she cackled. “The Elders support the old ways and wish to see the Titans restored to power. The blood spilled in the Tournament makes them more powerful. It feeds them. That is why there must be a sacrifice, why there must be death. They must rise.”

Saoirse tried to scream, but her voice was frozen in her throat. The world began to grow dim as Selussa’s shadows crept forward and consumed the edges of her vision. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight against the weight that squeezed her lungs like a serpent curling around her chest.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why Aurandel wins the Tournament every year? It is because the Elders make it so. They have spilled the blood of tributes for a century now. And their faithfulness will finally pay off.” Saoirse continued to struggle, trying to break free of Selussa’s shadows.

“I will kill the prince myself,” Selussa vowed, wrapping invisible fingers around her throat. “But though I may kill him, he will feel the sting of your blade in his heart. He will see your face as he dies.”

“No,” she rasped. “He will know it isn’t me. He trusts me.” Peels of ugly laughter erupted from Selussa’s mouth, sending shivers up Saoirse’s spine.

“Oh, this is rich. You believe that Rook has developed affection for you? That he has slipped under your spell with your words and your professions of love?” Selussa laughed, tightening her grip. “Who would believe anything from the mouth of a siren?”

The last thing Saoirse saw before the shadows consumed her were the Witch’s black eyes, delirious for vengeance.

Then everything went dark.

27

ROOK

Rook stood outside Hasana’s tent, gathering his thoughts. In the dizzy haze of passion that had followed him from Saoirse’s tent, he had forgotten to warn the Tellusun princess of the uprising in Bezhad. Until the golden light of the sunrise had spilled across the camp, he hadn’t thought of anything else other than Saoirse. Even now, his heart began to race at the thought of her, an aching, unbearable sensation that brought simultaneous euphoria and sorrow. He had repeated their encounter in her tent over and over again in his mind, trying to imagine how he could make things work between them. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make the pieces fit together. She had been right. There was no room for them in the paper-thin web of political alliances that built up their world.

But if he couldn’t control what happened between the Mer and the Aura, he could at least do the bare minimum to aid Princess Hasana. He cleared his throat, trying to get her attention from inside the tent. A gust of wind swept through the campsite, rustling the tents around him. Hasana’s tent drifted open in the breeze for a brief moment, giving him a glimpse inside. The tent was completely empty, the bed at the center untouched. Rook frowned and turned toward the neighboring Tellusun tents in confusion. Perhaps she had gotten an early start to the day, already taking her place in the Stone Circle with her attendants.

Rook strode over to Noora Mir, one of the remaining Tellusun tributes nearby. Noora was securing a wickedly sharp knife to her thigh, a grim expression on her face. Her once glorious tribute’s cloak fluttered in the wind, marred by unidentifiable stains and frayed along the edges. She glanced up to see him approaching, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. Her face was instantly guarded as he reached the outside of her tent. She turned her attention back to fastening a curved sword to her hip, saying nothing to him.

“Where is Hasana?” Rook asked, surprised that the personal guard of the princess would let her out of sight. Noora looked up at him once more, her face impassive and unreadable. He realized with a start that this was the first time he had ever spoken to the warrior, despite them being tributes together all this time

“She is gone,” she stated flatly, busying herself with preparations for the trial.

“Where?” Rook asked. Was it possible that she had found out about the uprising in Bezhad?

“To the arena,” Noora replied. “She left sometime ago.” Rook narrowed his eyes at her, watching as she avoided eye contact. Something told him that Noora wasn’t telling the truth. But instead of pushing her further, he simply bowed in thanks.

“I appreciate your time,” Rook told her. “I wish you luck today,” he added. “May glory be given.” It was the first thing he had said that seemed to catch the stoic warrior off guard. Her eyes softened, and her hardened exterior melted away somewhat.

“May glory be given to you, Prince Rook,” she answered with a slight bow. She strode off toward her companion, Ramin Naseeba. Ramin stared at him curiously, clutching the pommel of his sword as Noora hurried over. She whispered something in his ear, her gaze never leaving his own. Rook averted his eyes. Something about their whispers made him feel uneasy.

Rook strode through the campsite quickly, wanting to leave the sea of tents as quickly as possible and never return. He passed the stretch of dark Terradrin tents, made of opaque fabrics that blocked out the light of the sun and shielded them from being burned. From the dark shadows of his tent, the Terradrin warrior Adresin stared at Rook, his luminous white eyes rimmed with red. Though there were no tears on his pale face, his emotion was evident. He was still recovering from the loss of his companion, Diru, in the second trial yesterday. Neia Landum was nowhere to be found, likely mourning away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

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