Page 191 of The Ascended
Yet no one approached. No accusatory fingers pointed in my direction. The Legends continued their conversations, hardly sparing us a glance.
I scanned the faces of the other contestants who had made it through the trial before us. Nine heads, including myself, Marx, and Thatcher.
Kyren should have been ten. My chest constricted at the thought. He'd nearly made it.
At the far end of the terrace, elevated above the rest of the gathering, sat two thrones. The beings who occupied them couldn't have been more different from one another, yet they shared the same aura of ancient, terrible power. Two of the Twelve.
The one to the left was ethereal beauty incarnate—pale skin that shimmered in swirling patterns, hair so white it beamed with opalescent hues, and those intense, golden eyes. Her gown shifted between states, parts of it becoming nearly transparent before solidifying once more. Syrena, Aesymar of Dreams and Illusions. It had to be.
Beside her sat Pyralia, Aesymar of Fire and Passion. Where Syrena was ethereal, Pyralia was a wild, raging force—skin the rich bronze of sun-baked earth, hair that seemed to shift between shades of flame with each subtle movement. Her gown appeared to be made from magma itself, rolling down her curves.
Of course. Illusions and passion. The perfect combination to craft a trial based on burning desires.
"Contestants," Syrena's voice cut through the murmured conversations, silencing them instantly. "You stand before us as survivors of the third trial—the trial of restraint."
"Some of you burned," Pyralia continued. "Consumed by desiresyou could not master, by illusions you chose to believe despite our warnings."
"Others fled," Syrena added, "but found no escape from the flames of your own making."
"Only those who recognized the truth—that desire unchecked becomes destruction—found salvation in trusting the unknown." Pyralia's gaze swept over us.
"The freefall," Syrena concluded. "The willingness to face the ether rather than burn."
I should have been listening, absorbing every word for potential advantage in whatever Trials remained.
Instead, my mind spiraled into panic.
They had seen. They had all seen my desires made manifest.
My skin burned hotter as humiliation crashed through me. I kept my eyes fixed on the marble floor. When I finally gathered the courage to glance up, I found myself instinctively searching for one particular face in the crowd.
But it wasn’t Xül’s eyes who found me. It was Nyvora’s. Xül stood at the edge of the gathering, his expression unreadable. Nyvora clung to his arm like some beautiful parasite, her gaze narrowed on me. But Xül—Xül wouldn't look at me at all. His gaze remained determinedly fixed elsewhere.
He had seen everything—had witnessed my weakness, my desire, my shame—and now he couldn't even bear to look at me.
"You are dismissed," Syrena's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "Rest. Recover. Prepare. The final trial awaits."
The crowd dispersed, Legends collecting their remaining contestants, conversations resuming in hushed tones. Thatcher gave me a quick, fierce hug.
"Chavore is waiting for me," he said, his voice still rough from smoke. "We'll talk next time?"
Gods. There was so much I'd needed to discuss with Thatcher—Kavik, Lyralei's warning, everything that had happened since we'dlast truly spoken. But the drugged wine and the chaos of the trial had stolen that opportunity from us. And now, it was too late.
I simply nodded, watching as he crossed to where his mentor waited. As he approached, I caught fragments of their conversation.
"...Kavik?" Thatcher was asking.
Chavore shrugged, unconcerned. "Without a contestant, he likely didn't see the point in attending tonight."
I frowned.
Either Chavore was an exceptional actor, or Bellarium wasn’t aware of Kavik's fate.
"Come on," Marx murmured, linking her arm through mine. "Let's go."
I let her lead me across the terrace to where Xül, Aelix, and Nyvora stood in conversation. Xül still refused to look at me, his gaze fixed resolutely on some distant point over my head. The pain of his rejection twisted deeper.
Aelix, at least, seemed genuinely pleased to see us. He stepped forward, clasping Marx's free hand warmly.
