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Ididn’tcomeoutof my room at Cresthaven for the rest of the night. Nor could I leave the following morning or afternoon.

I lay in bed, sometimes in a black, dreamless sleep, sometimes awake and staring at the ceiling. Sometimes hungry and sometimes racing to the bathroom to vomit everything my body could muster.

The timekeeper rang out the final hour of daylight. It would be dark by the next ringing of the bells. At that time, I’d be in the arena facing my final test from the Emperor. Deep in the Shadow Stronghold, Haleika would be losing her final connection to her life, her body, and her soul as the forsaken process was completed. Her limbs would grow, and her nails would extend into claws as she made the final transformation to akadim.

And I couldn’t be there to ease her pain. Or support Tristan. Or do anything remotely useful.

There was a knock on my door. I pushed myself off my bed, hands shaking, knees wobbly. I was dressed in full soturion regalia. Morgana had come in at some point and warned me that the Emperor’s soturi were on the way, that they would privately escort me to the Katurium, and I was to be dressed. And so I was locked into my armor, my boots laced up to my knees, my cloak pleated around my waist and cinched in by my belt with shined and sharpened Valalumirs, and my arm cuffs tightened just so.

Because it was there, because I seemed to associate the jewelry with meeting my doom, I put Ramia’s necklace on top of it all. The effect was powerful as I braided back my hair—deep brown, as there was no sun to be seen at a time like this, not with the ringing of the bells indicating sunset had arrived.

I opened the door, finding two escorts in brushed-gold armor. I stepped back in surprise—we hadn’t had any staff or servants in our bedroom wing in years, much less foreign soturi. They both sneered before offering slight bows of their heads, the slightest show of respect. I was marched downstairs through the Great Hall without ceremony, past the columns detailing the history and deeds of my ancestors, of the arkasvim of Ka Batavia who’d ruled for a thousand years. I felt the bloodline ending today, ending with me.

Meera and Morgana waited at the front doors, dressed in their finest dresses of Batavia red. Their blue mage robes were elegantly draped across their shoulders.

My father was stoic, silent, as we were all led across the promenade, away from Cresthaven to the port where our seraphim waited. There we were separated into our own seraphim carriages full of escorts. The guard was made of a blend of our own soturi and those of the Emperor.

Markan, of course, was paired with me, as well as two bearded soturi who seemed completely uninterested in acknowledging my presence.

Before I stepped into my carriage, my father appeared, pulling me back into a hug. His arms squeezed tight around me, his face buried in my hair.

“Me bat,”he said.My daughter.He only used the High Lumerian term when he was truly feeling worried, or full of emotion. “I love you,” he said quietly. “You’re strong. Remember that.”

I nodded, too choked up to respond as his guard escorted him back to his carriage.

I huddled into the corner of mine, trying to shake the sense that this was my last time flying away from Cresthaven. I couldn’t think that. I didn’t want to entertain the thought. I wanted to believe I was strong enough, that I would be given a fair chance, that I would survive. Or, at the least, if necessary, Rhyan would keep his promise. But I didn’t want that, not for either of us. Not when so much had been lost already. Not when he was so devastated from last night. Not when exile wasn’t what either of us desired. And not when my duties still bound me here.

But my father’s sudden show of emotion left me full of fear and dread.

My fingers tightened around the hilt of my sword, sheathed at my hip. My dagger rested beside its scabbard, and beneath my cloak and belt, two more knives were strapped to my thighs.

The floor shifted beneath my feet, the wind blowing through the windows as our seraphim began her descent outside the Katurium.

Rhyan waited for me with a row of Bamarian escorts. A row of soturi who served the Emperor stood at attention behind them. The contrasting shades of gold were stark against the snow.

My eyes found Rhyan’s, green and distant. As our gazes met, he looked away, assessing the soturi around him.

We were marched into the Katurium and deposited inside our training room. Only Rhyan, as my apprentice, was permitted to enter, while the rest of the soturi guarding me—perhaps to keep me from fleeing—waited outside the door.

“Give her a minute,” Rhyan snarled, slamming the door shut.

It burst back open, revealing an angry guard. “She’s due on the field before the bells ring again.”

“I know,” Rhyan yelled. “You think she’s going to escape? Or has your tattoo gone to your brain? How far do you think she’d get when the city’s infected with your kind?”

The soturion glared. “Five minutes. I hear anything funny, I open the door. And you’ll both be taken in.”

“Fantastic.” Rhyan slammed the door in his face, his chest heaving, aura cold.

Hands fisted at his sides, he exhaled sharply before coming to stand before me, his eyes assessing my body, studious. His expression softened as he took me in, took in my fear and nerves. I had no aura without magic, but I knew he could feel everything I did from the way he watched me. He reached out before abruptly fisting his hand back at his side.

“You have your knives?” he asked, his voice detached and cold. “Blade? Sword?”

I swallowed, my mouth dry. “Yes.”

“Armor tightened and buckled?” he asked.

My stomach twisted. “Do you want to check?”