Page 12 of City of Secrets and Shadows (Empire of Vengeance #2)

12

T he Grand Ballroom of the Imperial Palace stretched before me like a gilded canyon, its vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate mosaics depicting dragons in flight against an azure sky. Golden flame-globes hung in cascading tiers, casting warm light over the assembled nobility. The polished marble floor gleamed like still water, reflecting the movement of silk-draped bodies as they navigated the complex social currents.

At the head of the room, an elevated dais held the High Table where the legates sat in their ceremonial regalia — indigo cloaks fastened with dragon-scale brooches over crisp white tunics. Below them, twelve tables arranged in precise hierarchical order filled the space, each draped in fabric that shimmered with golden thread. The quality of the linens diminished subtly as one's gaze moved outward from the centre, a visual reminder of status that wasn’t lost on anyone present.

I smoothed the folds of my deep red stola, the fine silk cool beneath my fingers. The garment draped from my shoulders in elegant pleats, cinched at my waist with a bronze-clasped belt inlaid with carnelian stones. Bronze cuffs encircled my wrists, etched with protective sigils that complemented the heavy pendant resting against my collarbone — a stylized dragon’s eye that Octavia insisted would mark me as a woman of taste but not excessive wealth. My hair had been arranged in a series of intricate braids woven with thin bronze wire that caught the light when I moved.

The stola felt strange after months in leather armour and years before that in rough slave tunics. Yet there was something undeniably pleasurable about the way the fabric moved with my body, the gentle weight of the jewels against my skin. I’d expected to feel like an impostor in such finery, but instead found myself enjoying the transformation.

Our table — the “outsiders’ table” as I’d quickly come to think of it — stood at the furthest edge of the arrangement. The provincial nobles and representatives of lesser houses who shared it with me wore expressions that mirrored my own carefully constructed mask of polite interest. We were united in our awareness that even the servants approached our table with less frequency and attentiveness than those closer to the centre of power.

I reminded myself that this, too, was part of the trials. The legates watched us from their elevated position, noting alliances formed or rejected, weaknesses revealed in casual conversation. Another arena, different weapons. The thought steadied me, though my mind kept wandering back to what had happened earlier with Septimus.

His hands on my thighs, his mouth — gods, his mouth. After years of tension between us, the dam had finally broken. The memory of his dark eyes looking up at me as he knelt between my legs sent a flush of heat through my body that had nothing to do with the warm ballroom. His possessiveness, the commanding tone that had entered his voice when he promised to return later... it awakened something in me I hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

“Would you care for more wine, my lady?” A servant appeared at my shoulder, breaking my inappropriate reverie.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied, forcing my thoughts away from Septimus and back to my surroundings.

Had I made a mistake in allowing him so close? The intensity in his eyes had been unmistakable — this wasn’t just physical desire for him. It never had been. The promise of his return tonight both thrilled and terrified me. And then there were his words about Marcus, about sharing me. The thought sent another wave of heat through my body. Marcus with his gentle hands and quiet strength. Septimus with his fierce possessiveness.

But what about Tarshi? The thought of him dimmed my excitement. If Septimus discovered what had happened between Tarshi and me... his hatred of the Talfen ran deep, poisoned by Imperial propaganda. He would try to kill Tarshi — I was certain of it. And Tarshi would defend himself. The potential bloodshed made my stomach twist.

Should I turn Septimus away if he did return to my chambers tonight? The thought brought an immediate pang of disappointment. But was my desire worth risking everything we’d worked for? Worth risking Tarshi’s life?

A stir at the entrance drew my attention, providing welcome distraction from my tumultuous thoughts. Jalend entered the ballroom, later than protocol dictated. His dark blue formal attire marked him instantly as a member of one of the most prestigious academic families, the cut and quality speaking of wealth worn with the casual confidence of someone who’d never known its absence.

Every eye tracked his movement as he surveyed the room. At the table closest to the dais, several young nobles from prominent houses shifted to make space, their expectant expressions making it clear they’d deliberately saved him a place. Yet after acknowledging them with a slight nod, Jalend continued past their table.

And the next.

And the next.

Whispers followed his progress as he moved through the room until, to my astonishment, he stopped at our table — the furthest from the centre of power — and took the empty seat directly across from me.

“Is this place taken?” he asked, though he was already settling into the chair.

“No,” I answered, catching the startled glances of the provincial nobles sharing our table.

Without further comment, Jalend signalled a servant who hurried over with considerably more haste than any had shown our table previously. The servant poured wine and offered the first course while Jalend, to my further amazement, withdrew a small leather-bound book from within his formal attire and opened it, beginning to read and ignoring the rest of us.The baron’s son from Estermont, seated to my right, leaned forward eagerly. “Lord Jalend, what an unexpected pleasure. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced — my father holds lands near the southern border of Estermont. Perhaps you know of the Valerius estate?”

Jalend’s gaze lifted briefly from his plate. “I’m afraid I don’t,” he replied with a polite but distant smile that suggested further conversation would be unwelcome. “My family’s holdings are quite remote.”

The baron’s son faltered, clearly unsure how to respond to someone who showed so little interest in the usual social dance. “Ah... well, it’s a modest holding, to be sure...”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling as the man’s words trailed off awkwardly. The other provincial nobles exchanged glances, visibly reassessing this strange newcomer who had chosen our table yet seemed to have no interest in building alliances among us.

As the first course was cleared away, Jalend continued to read, apparently unconcerned with the social norms he was flagrantly violating. I studied him covertly while pretending to focus on my food. What game was he playing by choosing our table? Was it a deliberate insult to the other noble candidates? Or something else entirely?

“I quite look forward to tomorrow’s water trials,” remarked the merchant’s daughter seated across and along from me, her voice pitched to carry just a bit too far. “The afternoon sun will make for such a lovely spectacle. All those fine physiques glistening in the light.” She tittered behind her hand, glancing sideways at Jalend as if hoping to draw his attention.

“The scheduling seems poorly conceived to me,” I countered, finding her shallow assessment irritating. “Holding endurance tests in the afternoon sun rather than the cooler morning hours will test heat tolerance more than swimming skill.”

I hadn’t expected a response, least of all from Jalend, who had appeared wholly absorbed in his reading. Yet he closed his book, keeping one finger between the pages to mark his place.

“An astute observation,” he said. “Perhaps the purpose is precisely that — to assess how candidates perform when multiple physical stressors are combined. The battlefield rarely presents ideal conditions.”

I considered this. “True, but wouldn’t a more realistic assessment incorporate unpredictable elements? By scheduling the trial at the hottest part of the day, they’ve simply replaced one known variable with another.”

A flicker of interest crossed his features. “You suggest randomizing the conditions? Interesting. Though it raises the question of whether we’re testing adaptability or specific skills.” He tilted his head slightly. “If survival depends on your ability to swim across a river, it matters little whether you can adapt to unpredictable circumstances if you simply lack the necessary strength to fight the current.”

“But surely the essence of adaptability is finding alternative approaches when the obvious solution isn’t viable,” I countered. “The strongest swimmer might drown if they insist on crossing at the most dangerous point, while the weaker swimmer who identifies a narrower crossing might survive.”

“You’re arguing for intelligence over physical capability?” His expression was unreadable.

“I’m arguing for balance. The most effective warrior understands both their capabilities and their environment, adjusting strategy accordingly.”

Jalend studied me for a long moment, something new in his gaze that I couldn’t quite identify. “A philosophy with applications beyond warfare, one might say.”

“Most philosophies worth considering have broad applications,” I replied, surprised to find myself enjoying this exchange despite the intensity of his scrutiny.

He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, then reopened his book. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving me with the distinct impression I’d passed some sort of test I hadn’t known I was taking.

The meal progressed through its elaborate courses. Our table remained neglected by the servants, though Jalend’s presence ensured we weren’t completely forgotten. The provincial nobles made several more attempts to engage him, each rebuffed with the same polite indifference he’d shown the first.

I found my thoughts drifting again to Septimus, to the decision awaiting me when I returned to my chambers. His possessiveness had always been there, simmering beneath the surface of our contentious relationship. Part of me was thrilled at finally acknowledging the tension between us, at giving in to what we’d both wanted for so long.

Another part feared what it meant. Septimus didn’t share easily. If he discovered about Tarshi, about our nights together... the thought made my chest tighten with anxiety. And yet, he’d spoken of sharing me with Marcus. The apparent contradiction confused me.

Perhaps his hatred of the Talfen outweighed any jealousy he might feel toward Marcus? Or perhaps his jealousy took different forms with different men. Marcus he respected, Tarshi he despised. The politics of desire were as complex as those playing out around us in this ballroom.

If I allowed Septimus back into my bed tonight, was I making a choice I couldn’t undo? Setting events in motion that might threaten everything we’d worked for? Yet the thought of turning him away made my heart sink.

I wanted him. I wanted Marcus. I wanted Tarshi. The realization should have shamed me, but instead brought a strange clarity.

Each of them saw different facets of who I was, who I could be. With Septimus, I was fire and fury, matched in intensity and drive. With Marcus, I found gentleness I’d forgotten I possessed. With Tarshi, understanding and acceptance of parts of myself the Empire had taught me to hate.

But wanting wasn’t having. And having all three seemed impossible given the tensions between them — especially Septimus’s hatred of Tarshi.

My brooding was interrupted by a subtle shift in the ballroom’s atmosphere. The legates had risen from the High Table, signalling the transition from the formal meal to the less structured portion of the evening. Musicians positioned at the corners of the room began to play, their melody providing backdrop to the increasingly animated conversations as nobles moved between tables, forming and reforming groups based on interests and alliances.

“You seem preoccupied,” Jalend observed, closing his book as the dessert plates were cleared away.

“Just considering strategies,” I replied vaguely.

“For the water trials or for surviving this gathering?” A trace of amusement coloured his tone.

“Both require careful navigation of treacherous currents.”

He actually smiled at that — a small, quick expression that transformed his features momentarily before disappearing behind his usual reserve. “Indeed. Though I find most prefer to travel the expected paths, regardless of the dangers.”

“And you don’t?”

His eyes met mine directly. “I prefer to evaluate paths based on where they lead rather than who has travelled them before.”

“A luxury not everyone can afford,” I said, thinking of how precarious my position here truly was.

“A necessity few recognize,” he countered. “The consequences of blindly following established routes often prove far costlier than charting one’s own course.”

Before I could respond, one of the legates approached our table. The conversation around us faltered as everyone straightened, suddenly attentive.

“Lord Jalend,” the legate addressed him with curiosity rather than the deference shown to the established noble families. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Which province do you represent?”

Jalend closed his book with deliberate slowness. “Northreach. My family’s estate lies in the shadow of the Ashen Mountains.”

The legate’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’m not familiar with noble holdings in that region.”

“Few are,” Jalend replied without elaboration. “We value our privacy.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the legate’s face before his diplomatic training reasserted itself. “Well, we look forward to seeing your performance in tomorrow’s trials. It’s always refreshing to welcome new blood into the academy.”

“Indeed,” Jalend said, his tone making it clear the discussion was concluded.

As the legate retreated, I reassessed Jalend once more. There was something odd about his interactions, about the way he carried himself with such quiet confidence despite apparently having no established connections among the imperial elite. Either he was playing a very complex game, or he was exactly what he appeared to be — an outlier by choice rather than circumstance.

Jalend rose from the table, tucking his book inside his formal attire. “An enlightening conversation,” he said, addressing me directly. “I look forward to observing your performance in the water trials.” With a curt nod to the table at large, he departed, leaving a wake of whispers behind him.

The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of calculated conversation and careful observation. I noted which candidates attracted the attention of the legates, which were ignored despite their efforts. The social hierarchy grew clearer with each interaction, and my position near the bottom was confirmed repeatedly by subtle and not-so-subtle reminders.

It should have bothered me more than it did. But my mind remained divided between the immediate challenge of navigating this political landscape and the more personal dilemma awaiting me in my chambers. As the evening drew to a close, I still hadn’t decided what I would do when — if — Septimus came to me.

The walk back to my quarters gave me time to think, but brought no clarity. Octavia had already gone back to the apartment she and Marcus were staying in, and I was glad, preferring privacy as I removed the bronze jewellery and unwound the metal threads from my braids, examining my reflection in the polished metal mirror.

I barely recognized myself. The woman who looked back at me seemed far removed from the gladiator who had fought for her life in blood-soaked sand, from the slave girl who had watched her family die. This woman wore her transformation like armour, but underneath...

Underneath, I was still me. Still driven by the promise I’d made to my dying brother. Still determined to see the Emperor pay for what he’d done to my family, to my village. I hadn’t lost sight of my purpose amid the luxury and political games. That, at least, was something to hold onto.My thoughts drifted to Jalend, that strange provincial noble who had chosen our outcast table. There had been something compelling about him — not just his handsome features, though they were undeniable. Strong jawline, eyes that seemed to see more than others, and a quiet intensity that commanded attention despite his apparent desire to avoid it. His arrogance should have repelled me, but there was substance behind it, a quick intelligence that had engaged with my thoughts rather than dismissing them.

He seemed different from the other nobles, lacking their desperate need for validation, their constant jockeying for position. What drove someone like that to seek entry to the academy? Most provincial families viewed it as a path to greater political influence, a way to insert themselves into the imperial hierarchy. But Jalend had shown nothing but disdain for those social games.

A soft sound at my door interrupted my musings. Not a knock this time, but a subtle scratching pattern I recognized instantly. My heart quickened as I moved to unlatch it.

Tarshi slipped inside with the fluid grace that characterized all his movements. Unlike Septimus with his warrior’s bulk or Marcus with his scholarly bearing, Tarshi moved like water — adaptable, flowing, impossible to constrain. His amber eyes caught the lamplight as he closed the door behind him.

“You’re safe,” he breathed, pulling me into his arms with a gentleness that belied his strength. His lips found mine in a kiss that tasted of relief and longing.

When we separated, I leaned my forehead against his. “I wasn’t in any danger.”

“Every moment you spend among these vipers is dangerous,” he murmured. “How did the evening go?”

I told him about the dinner, the clear social hierarchy established by the seating arrangements, and Jalend’s unexpected choice to join our table.

“He sought you out?” Tarshi asked, his fingers absently tracing patterns on my arm.

“No, I don’t think so. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding the established nobles. Our table was simply the furthest from the centre of influence.”

“Yet he engaged with you specifically,” Tarshi pointed out. “Discussed philosophy with you.”

I hadn’t considered it that way. “He responded when I made an observation about the trials. It wasn’t personal.”

Tarshi made a noncommittal sound, his lips finding the sensitive spot below my ear. “If you say so,” he murmured against my skin. “But I’ve noticed how men look at you, Livia. Even when you were covered in arena dust and wearing leather armour. Now, dressed as a noble woman…” His kisses trailed down the side of my throat.

Desire pooled warm in my belly as his hands slid over the thin fabric of my sleeping garment. I wanted him — gods, how I wanted him. The way he touched me, as though mapping territories he intended to worship rather than conquer. But...

“Tarshi, wait,” I said, pulling back slightly. “I... we need to be careful.”

He withdrew immediately, hurt flashing across his features before he masked it. “Septimus,” he said flatly. Not a question.

I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “He might come tonight. If he found you here…”

“He’d kill me,” Tarshi finished. “Or try to.” The bitterness in his voice cut deep.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” I said, reaching for him, but he stepped back.

“Is that what you’re doing?” His amber eyes searched mine. “Or are you protecting him from having to face what you really want?”

“That’s not fair,” I protested, feeling a flash of defensive anger. “You know how complex this situation is.”

“I know you’re sleeping with Septimus too,” he said quietly. “I’m not a fool, Livia.”

The words hung between us, heavy with unspoken emotions. I hadn’t explicitly told him about what had happened with Septimus earlier today, but Tarshi had always been perceptive.

“It’s complicated,” I finally said, hating how inadequate the words sounded.

“It always is with your kind,” he replied, then winced. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair either.”

I crossed my arms, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “You’ve never had a problem sharing me with Marcus,” I pointed out, my tone sharper than I’d intended.

Tarshi’s laugh held no humour. “Marcus treats me like a human being,” he said. “Septimus would cut my throat like a pig with little provocation. Can you see the difference?”

“Septimus is a good man,” I insisted. “He’s just... he needs time. He needs to get to know you, to see beyond the propaganda the Empire has fed him his whole life.”

“A good man,” Tarshi repeated softly. “A good man who would murder me for touching what he considers his property.”

“I’m not his property,” I snapped.

“No? Then why are you waiting for him tonight instead of taking me to your bed? Why are you sending me away?” His voice wasn’t accusatory — somehow that made it worse. There was a resignation in his tone that suggested he’d expected nothing different.

“It’s not that simple. We need Septimus for this mission to succeed. He has connections, information—”

“And you care for him,” Tarshi interrupted. “You don’t need to deny it, Livia. I’ve always known your heart has room for more than one person.” He sighed, running a hand through his short hair. Now he was no longer required to shave it, the tight curls grew a startling white against his ebony skin, another reminder that he wasn’t human.

“But you don’t want me to want him.”

“I just don’t think his heart has room for anyone but himself, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The words stung because part of me feared he might be right. Septimus’s possessiveness had always bordered on obsession. Even his suggestion about sharing me with Marcus had come with conditions, with the clear implication that he would remain in control.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I admitted quietly.

Tarshi’s expression softened. He stepped forward, cupping my face in his hands. “You won’t lose me. I knew what I was getting into with you from the beginning.” His thumbs brushed my cheekbones gently. “But I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt to be sent away like this.”

“I’m not sending you away because I want to,” I said, leaning into his touch. “I’m afraid of what might happen if he finds us together.”

“I know.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “That’s what makes it worse. Even here, even now, my people are never safe. Always hiding, always less than.” His voice tightened. “Always expendable.”

“You’re not expendable to me,” I whispered fiercely.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then perhaps someday you won’t feel the need to hide me away.” He kissed me once more, softly, before stepping back. “But I understand the world we live in. The choices we must make to survive it.”

I reached for him, not wanting him to leave like this, with this wounded acceptance that felt worse than anger. “Tarshi—”

“It’s alright, Livia,” he said, already moving toward the door. “We play the roles we must. It’s how we’ve both survived this long.” His hand rested on the latch. “I’ll adapt, as I always have.”

“I don’t want you to have to adapt,” I said, frustration and guilt twisting inside me. “I want things to be different.”

“As do I.” His smile held genuine affection now, though tinged with sadness. “Perhaps someday they will be. Until then…” He opened the door a crack, checking the hallway. “Until then, we take what moments we can.”

He slipped out as silently as he’d arrived, leaving me alone. I sank onto the edge of my bed, guilt washing over me in waves. I hadn’t handled that well. I’d hurt him, justified it with practicality, with mission necessities. But the truth was more complicated. Part of me had wanted Septimus to come tonight. Had wanted to explore what had begun between us earlier today.

And that meant I’d chosen Septimus over Tarshi, at least for tonight. Not because I cared for one more than the other, but because... because what? Because Septimus demanded it? Because I feared his reaction? Because it was easier to appease the dangerous one?

What did that say about me?

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The fine linens felt suddenly abrasive against my skin, the luxury of the room oppressive rather than comforting. I had become what I needed to become to survive, to pursue my mission. But at what cost?