Page 5 of Court of Twisted Angels

KYRIE

The golden spires of New Solas pierce the clouds like daggers thrust into the sky. My hands tremble as I pass through the city gates, forcing myself to breathe against the tightness in my chest. The scar on my neck burns with phantom pain.

It was something I tried to ignore, thinking I could duck into the arena and hide away from the xaphan. If I just don't look at the stands of the arena, I could pretend they weren't there, right? But then the carriages dropped us at the edge of the city and the driver told us to walk. So, I'm forced into a city where they areeverywhere.

A xaphan guard swoops overhead, wings spread wide in an elegant arc. I flinch, ducking into the shadow of a nearby archway. The memory crashes over me - his cruel smile, that terrible burning?—

No. Focus on the present.

The marketplace sprawls before me in a riot of color and sound. Merchant stalls overflow with exotic wares: crystalline vials of liquid sunlight, feathers that dance on invisible winds, fruits that shimmer like jewels. The scent of incense and spicesfills the air, mingling with the crisp mountain breeze that sweeps down from The Ridge.

"Fresh bread! Straight from the earthfire ovens!" A human vendor's call draws my attention. At least there are other humans here, though they're vastly outnumbered.

My gaze catches on a xaphan noble gliding past, their pure white wings folded neatly against their back. The sight sends ice through my veins. I press myself against a wall, stone cool against my palms.

A group of lower-class xaphan hurry by, their mottled gray wings a stark contrast to the noble's pristine ones. They pay me no mind, too focused on their own business. Still, each beat of their wings makes my heart stutter.

Zarryn-drawn carriages clatter along the cobblestone streets, their golden wheels catching the light. The beasts' tufted hides ripple as they move, looking far too majestic for their temperament. A street performer conjures thalivern made of light, delighting a crowd of children as it takes flight.

The grandeur of it all would be breathtaking if I could just stop my hands from shaking. If I could forget the memories that are haunting me. But with each flash of white wings and gorgeous golden faces, I want to bolt.

But Mother's pale face flashes in my mind, and I straighten my spine. I have to do this. Have to prove myself in their trials.

No matter how many winged reminders of my nightmares I have to face.

Finally, I make it through the streets. The registration hall looms ahead, its crystal dome refracting sunlight into rainbow patterns across marble floors. I join the line of humans shuffling through massive golden doors, each etched with scenes of winged figures in triumph. My stomach turns at the propaganda.

"Did you hear about last year's second trial?" A muscled man ahead of me whispers to his companion. "They had to learn tochannel magic. It ripped some of them apart before the trial even started."

"That's nothing," his friend responds, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a network of lightning-shaped scars. "I faced one of the Praexa that make the games two years ago. He tested out some ideas on a group of us. The storms they make? They're alive. Hunting you."

I clench my jaw, focusing on the steady click of my boots against stone rather than their stories. The line inches forward through a series of archways filled with shimmering magical barriers. Each one tingles as I pass through – probably scanning for weapons or existing enchantments.

A xaphan attendant with dove-gray wings gestures me toward one of dozens of ornate writing desks. The quill glows with its own light, hovering expectantly over a piece of parchment that seems to ripple like water.

"Name and origin?" His voice carries that typical xaphan musical lilt that sets my teeth on edge.

"Kyrie Kael. Northwestern settlements." I force the words past the tightness in my throat.

The quill dances across the page of its own accord. "Medical history?"

My scar burns. "Nothing relevant."

More scratching of the quill. Around me, other hopefuls answer similar questions, their voices a mix of determination and barely concealed fear. A woman nearby breaks down sobbing when asked about her family, escorted away by guards with rust-colored wings.

"Place your hand here." The attendant indicates a crystal embedded in the desk's surface. It pulses with inner light as my palm meets its cool surface. "This measures your magical potential."

The crystal flares bright green, then dims. The attendant's eyebrows rise slightly – the first break in his bored expression. He marks something on the parchment with a flourish, but I don't know what it means.

"Proceed to the waiting quarters to prepare for initiation tomorrow. Next!"

I move aside, my heart hammering against my ribs. The registration parchment vanishes in a flash of golden light, whisked away to whatever archives the xaphan keep of their human entertainment. I'm surprised they even keep the record

The waiting chamber opens into a vast dormitory, its vaulted ceiling supported by twisted columns that seem to grow from the floor like crystal trees. Magical orbs of light drift lazily through the air, casting ever-shifting shadows across rows of wooden bunks.

"Top or bottom?" A girl with close-cropped black hair points to an empty bunk. Her arms are corded with muscle, but there's kindness in her eyes.

"Top." I hoist myself up, the wooden frame creaking under my weight. The mattress is stuffed with something that smells faintly of lavender.

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