Page 15 of Storm of Stars (Pride of Praxis #2)

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Bex

The stage lights were blinding, hot and white and merciless.

From the shadows of the wings, Briar and I stood pressed together, the harsh glow spilling just far enough to paint our faces in slivers of silver.

Zaffir had made his way to the audience to set up his camera.

Ezra and Thorne were lined up on the other side of the stage, but I could see their faces from our spot.

Annalese welcomed everyone to the trial with her usual cheery disposition. Then she introduced the first Challenger. Devrin entered the stage.

He sat at the grand piano with no introduction, no flourish, just stillness.

Then his fingers found the keys, and the music poured out like a confession.

It was a Saltspire folk song, familiar and aching despite never having heard it, the kind sung to children on long winter nights or whispered during stolen moments in the dark.

He didn’t sing, but he didn’t need to. The piano told the story for him.

“He’s good,” Briar murmured beside me, her voice soft but full of something almost reverent.

The crowd was on their feet, hands raised high, chanting his name.

I narrowed my eyes at the sea of them. “I wonder if he earned those fans before or after he nearly killed me,” I whispered, the words sour on my tongue. Were they cheering for the music, or the violence? Did they care about the art, or the blood?

Briar leaned her head gently against my shoulder. She didn’t say anything, just comforted me with her touch. Praxis didn’t earn its bloodthirsty reputation through rumor alone. These people had been trained to applaud destruction.

When the final note faded, Annalese swept onto the stage with her usual theatrical flourish, grabbing Devrin’s wrist and raising his arm high into the air like he’d just won a boxing match.

The crowd roared. Devrin didn’t flinch. No smile. No bow. Just a cold, defiant stare into the nearest camera.

“What’s that song called, Devrin?” Annalese asked, pushing the mic too close to his mouth.

He paused for a heartbeat, then said clearly, “The Moth.”

My breath caught. Briar’s eyes snapped to mine.

“Did he just…” I started, glancing across the stage to see Ezra and Thorne having a similar silent shocked conversation.

“There’s Runaways everywhere, I guess,” she finished, her voice barely audible, like saying it too loud would collapse the moment.

As Devrin stepped off the stage, he didn’t look at me. Not at first. But just before he vanished into the shadows, he flicked a single glance my way and gave the smallest nod. A signal. A promise.

He knew what I was planning.

And he was in.

Next up was Vivian Arlo of Ironclad. She wheeled out a massive canvas, easel already set, and began to paint with deft, confident strokes. We couldn’t see the image from where we stood, but her hands moved with certainty, every flick of her wrist deliberate. The crowd stayed hushed, waiting.

When she finally stepped back, Annalese lifted the canvas for all to see, revealing a night sky, endless and full of stars. Briar and I exchanged a look.

Was it really happening? Were all of us making statements?

Thorne was next. Ever the lively one, he sauntered onto the stage with a cocky grin, unfolding a slightly crumpled piece of paper. I braced myself, half-laughing already, expecting the dirty limerick he’d teased me with earlier.

But what came out of his mouth wasn’t crude. It wasn’t even funny. It was soft. Reverent.

And it shattered me.

“She named the stars like lullabies, soft on her tongue, sweet in his skies. Each one a promise, burning true. A light to follow, a love he knew.”

The room, previously loud with applause and laughter, fell still. You could hear the hush settle like snow. Even Annalese, standing at the edge of the stage with her mic poised, looked utterly invested.

“She taught him how to look above, to trace the constellations’ love. To see in distance not despair, but all the ways that she’d be there.”

Someone in the crowd sniffled. Another sobbed outright. A hush rippled through the audience, heavy with held breath and aching hearts. Briar’s grip on my hand tightened.

“He'd sit and watch the night alone, like it still whispered through the stone. Her voice in starlight, low and clear. You’re stronger, son, because I’m near.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until Briar reached up and wiped a tear from my cheek. She had tears streaking down her own face too. Wordlessly, I squeezed her hand.

“And though the sky is vast and wide, he carries her in every stride. In every breath, in every scar… he is her boy. And she is his star.”

The final line landed like a quiet thunderclap. The crowd didn’t erupt at first. They sat in silence for a second too long, like everyone needed a breath. Then the applause burst forward, raw and emotional, peppered with cheers and more than a few sobs.

Annalese stepped forward slowly, her eyes shining. “Thorne,” she said gently, her voice filled with a kind of maternal awe. “That was stunning. You wrote that about your mother?”

He nodded, serious now, no trace of his usual swagger.

“Is she still with us?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Gone nearly fifteen years now.”

Annalese’s gaze softened even further. “Do you think she’d be proud of you? For the work you’ve done tonight… and in this Run?”

Thorne didn’t answer her right away. Instead, he turned his head to face the camera. To face everyone watching. His voice rang steady and clear.

“She’d be proud of what I’ve done,” he said. “But I know she’ll be even more proud of what I do next.”

The crowd roared. It was thunderous. He turned and walked off the stage, but not before shooting me a flirty wink that made my already-tired heart twist in the best kind of way. Then he disappeared into the wings on the other side, leaving behind a stage full of silence and stars.

Cayal Orin of Ember followed. He stepped forward, book in hand, and began to read. His voice was rich and clear, pulling us into a tale of a young prince trapped in a kingdom haunted by a cruel dragon. The people cowered, afraid to speak, until finally, they rose together. Fought. Won.

“The prince decided,” he read, “that his story didn’t have to end like that.”

The crowd laughed, clapped, cheered. But something cold and electric slid down my spine. Because I knew exactly who the dragon was meant to be.

One by one, they were standing up. Telling the truth. In code. In symbols. In song and story and paint. The Challengers were standing together instead of in opposition.

And then came Lark Harbor of Wildfold.

I’d spent the whole Run with a knot in my stomach every time I saw him, he was the other top contender for the medical trials. The one person who could take what my brother needed away from me. I’d told myself he was the enemy, because that’s the narrative Praxis had manufactured.

Music started softly, and then he moved.

Not just moved, but danced. Every motion was poetry, every spin a declaration. He wore a long dark cloak that swirled like smoke around him, but halfway through the piece, he ripped it off, revealing wings painted across his chest and arms…moth wings.

The audience exploded. They didn’t understand. Not really. Maybe some of them did. They thought it was beautiful, dramatic. They didn’t see what the Runaways saw. The hidden message within the movements.

But we knew.

A moth. A starfield. A prince. A folk song.

A rebellion wrapped in performance.

Tears prickled behind my eyes. I blinked fast. I couldn’t afford to cry right now.

We were in this together. All of us. Even Fenly. My throat tightened at the thought of his name. He should be here too. And maybe, in some way, he still was. His absence only spurred me forward.

What was happening tonight was bigger than any one of us.

Ezra was next. He entered the stage with shackles on his wrists. I felt a jolt of shock and confusion as I watched him take his place center stage. The audience murmured with confusion as well. He made his way to a small pillar that was raised from the stage. Metal, sturdy, immoveable.

He began wrapping the chains connected to his wrists around the pillar.

Slow deliberate movements. Circling the pillar like a vice grip.

Then, with nothing but brute strength, ripped the chains apart, the shackles fell from his wrists clattering on the floor.

The audience cheered as Annalese scurried in.

“My my, what a show of strength, Ezra,” she began. “Why did you choose to share this talent today?”

Ezra leaned down to the mic and looked down the barrel of the camera before him. “Just a reminder that not every cage is inescapable.” They cheered again, and Ezra slipped from the stage but not before shooting me a gentle look, and a soft smile meant just for me.

Then Annalese called our names.

Briar shot me a soft smile, one only I got to see, then stepped into the lights.

I followed close behind, and the moment our bodies hit the stage, the crowd screamed.

Ravenously. Their praise came like a wave, overwhelming and deafening.

It echoed against the domed ceiling and crashed against the stage.

I scanned the audience, a sea of wealth and brilliance. The stage lights beamed hot on my skin, and the faces beyond were mostly smudges in the glare.

Until I saw him.

Zaffir.

My chest fluttered, just for a moment, and I allowed myself a small, fleeting smile. But I didn’t linger, because as my gaze continued to wander, it landed on her.

Archon Veritas.

She wasn’t in the crowd. Perched above in a box seat like a God in judgment. Her gaze was sharp, assessing, unblinking. She leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the rail, the barest smirk playing on her lips…waiting. Daring me to make my choice.

And I held her stare. I didn't bow. Didn't look away. Not tonight. Not ever again.