Noelis sat in her chamber, the quiet hum of dawn pressing softly against the windows. The echoes of the previous night still haunted her skin — the fevered touch, the silken heat, the silence that had followed when Elarion stormed from the room.
After his abrupt departure, each Tribute had been escorted away in turn. Noelis, accompanied by a single attendant, had been led through a long corridor lined with golden sconces and pale tapestries. Her chamber awaited furnished in the deep green and silver of House Ardenne, a smaller reflection of the great hall she had left behind. The four-poster bed stood like a sentinel in the centre of the room, draped in gauze and shadows.
Her attendant worked quickly, undressing her of what remained of her silk gown, now nothing more than ribbons of cloth, and guiding her into a robe of soft linen. Every movement drew a faint ache from her body, a reminder of what had transpired. The woman's hands were gentle, silent in her service, and Noelis was grateful for the absence of words. When the robe was fastened, the attendant gestured for her to follow once more.
Too tired to question, Noelis obeyed.
They stopped before a vast white door gilded with moon motifs. When it opened, a billow of hot steam escaped, curling around her face like a breath of life. A sigh escaped her before she could stop it.
Beyond lay a marble bathhouse so vast it could have been a temple—columns carved with moon sigils, pools lit by drifting candles. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and salt. A tranquil pool filled the centre, its surface rippling beneath the light of floating candles. Above it was a circle of glass ceiling revealing the midnight sky with its stars.
"This is the bathhouse of the Lunar Quarters," said the attendant quietly. "The waters are blessed by the Celestials. They heal the body and soothe the mind. There is a bell at every corner. Ring it when you are finished, or if you wish for anything else."
With that, she slipped away, leaving Noelis alone amid the steam and silence.
Noe loosened her robe and let it slide away. The heat wrapped around her bare skin as she stepped into the pool, ripples shivering outward until her reflection broke apart. She dipped a toe — and then, with a soft sigh, sank beneath the surface.
The heat enveloped her instantly, seeping into her muscles and bones, coaxing the pain from every limb. She closed her eyes, letting herself drift. For the first time since dusk, she felt weightless.
Time passed. The water murmured faintly around her.
Then — the sound of the door, the rustle of movement. Two shadows appeared through the steam.
Elarion's other two Tributes.
The taller blonde entered first, graceful even in weariness. "If you don't mind us joining," she said with a faint smile. "We meant to give you time alone, but the hall is cold as death."
"Of course," Noelis replied softly. "This place is as much yours mine."
The blonde stepped closer, holding out a hand. "Alarie Olandstrom. From the heaths of the Fjords." Her voice held neither shame nor pride, merely fact.
"I'm Rowena Sarubi," said the petite girl beside her, eyes downcast. A princess of the small Sarubi Kingdom, if Noelis recalled correctly — her name alone carried that hint of blue blood.
"Noelis Thannor," Noe replied. "You can call me Noe." She offered no further title. The name of her mother's line, Valemorde, remained unspoken. It was safer that way. Safer that Elarion never knew.
"Are you... all right?" Rowena asked quietly, her tone careful, as if she were stepping across fragile glass. Both girls watched her with concern, the question heavy with unspoken memory.
Noe smiled faintly, drawing strength from the act itself. "I've had better days," she said. "But I'll survive."
Alarie's hand came to rest lightly on her arm. "You bore the brunt of it," she said softly. "But it's over now. If you need anything, we're here."
"Thank you," Noe murmured — and for the first time since the night began, her smile reached her eyes. She sensed that these two might become allies... perhaps even friends.
"This water is said to heal," Alarie declared suddenly, splashing the surface with a wide sweep of her hand. "Let us see if the Celestials truly favour us — we've earned that much!"
Rowena squealed as droplets struck her face, and laughter rippled through the steam. For a while they talked in jovial voices—nothing of men or bloodlines but something lighter: the ridiculously thin dress they made the Tributes wear, the absurd height of the thrones, the way the moonlight hit the marble floor. Alarie splashed them again with a grin. Rowena yelped. Laughter rang against the tiles, sharp and bright.
For a heartbeat, they were only girls in a bath, not tributes or bargaining pieces. They floated in warmth and laughter until the pain of the night blurred into something almost distant.
By morning, Noe's body ached less than she had feared. The bath had worked its magic. Only a faint burn lingered low on her abdomen — a soft heat, steady and insistent.
While dressing, she had caught sight of a shimmer beneath her navel — a Mark. Barely visible, yet alive with faint light, shaped almost like the curve of a tail. Her celestial beast, then, bore one.
Sleep had not come easily. When it did, it was besieged with the echo of Elarion's breath on her neck, his voice rough with power, his eyes gleaming with something not entirely human. She woke up flushed, her body feeling hot.
At dawn, the same attendant returned, wordless as before, helping her into a gown of deep violet velvet embroidered with gold thread. The colour framed her pale skin and hair, lending her a quiet nobility she did not feel.
As the attendant pinned a clasp at her shoulder, Noe caught her reflection in the mirror. Her features were unchanged, but her eyes — once a soft grey-brown — now held a faint ring of gold around the pupils. She wondered if the others had changed too.
Soon, she was ushered through the marble corridors and into the breakfast hall.
"Lady Noelis," the attendant announced.
Conversation stilled. Dozens of eyes turned.
Holding her chin high, she scanned across the room and saw that the three victors sat along one side of the great table, their Tributes positioned beside them.
Alarie, seated to Elarion's left, offered a wave and gestured to the empty seat next to Rowena who sat to his right. Noe inclined her head and took her place. Rowena's small hand found hers beneath the table and gave a quiet squeeze, a quiet pulse of solidarity.
Elarion didn't look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the silver cup in front of him. The muscle in his jaw flexed once, then stilled again. But the others studied her openly — curiosity, perhaps envy, flickering in their eyes. All of them knew she had been the last Tribute taken.
To her other side sat Alixon Tharoz, a man with the easy charm of one born to court life. "I hope you slept well," he said lightly. "I am Alixon Tharoz. My uncle is king."
Before Noe could answer, a sharp-eyed woman with auburn hair on the other side of the table, spoke in a bored drawl. "We've gone through introductions twice already this morning."
Alixon ignored her. "And this is Zarya, of the Aquillas Isles," he said, gesturing toward his companion. The woman gave a polite nod, expression unreadable.
Across the table, another voice joined in — low, amused. "Calen, son of King Drakonus. One of his many sons."
Noe looked up and recognition stirred. She remembered him from the bonfire at the Autumn Equinox — the reckless noble with the stormy eyes who had caught her gaze across the flames. She hadn't expected to see him again.
His eyes were softer in daylight, warm brown shot through, his dark brown hair cropped shorter than Elarion and Alixon's. When their gazes met, his mouth curved as if he remembered too.
When no one else spoke, Calen continued, introducing his two companions: "Princess Inaya Nikeva," he said, indicating the elegant blonde seated nearest him, "and Lady Faelynn Feiber."
Throughout the exchange, Elarion did not once glance her way. His silence was deliberate, his detachment precise. It was as if the events of the night had never happened — as though she were invisible. But Calen noticed. He noticed everything. Whatever had transpired between them had left a mark deeper than mere ceremony, and the absence of acknowledgment only deepened his curiosity.
Alarie cleared her throat. "We already introduced ourselves last night," she said brightly, glancing at Noe. "But I suppose we can do it again for courtesy's sake."
"Noelis Thannor," Noe said evenly. "Originally from the Mittelands... though I moved around often."
Calen's brows rose slightly. Her speech, her poise — too refined for a wanderer. There was more to her than she revealed.
Elarion thought much the same but crushed the thought before it could grow. He refused to let her occupy another corner of his mind. Noelis — now he knew her name, though he wished he didn't.
As conversation resumed, Rowena quietly filled Noe's plate with fruit, bread that was still warm and honey. Noe whispered a thanks and took a bite, realising only then how hungry she was. Whatever awaited, she would need her strength. Noe could feel the air shift every time Calen looked at her but ignoring it, she finished her plate and helped herself to some more.
Meanwhile the three victors engaged in a deep discussion of politics and allegiances. The tone began calm, but the undercurrent was sharp. Elarion's kingdom was in trouble; that much was clear even from the fragments she caught. They spoke of armies, debts, and oaths sealed by blood. Elarion's tone was flat and controlled, never pleading although it sounded like his Kingdom should be begging for all the support they could get. Calen's was all ease and edge, like a blade hidden beneath silk. Alixon filled the silence with practiced diplomacy.
Then the conversation stilled.
"Consider the deal done," Calen said at last, his voice smooth. "I accept your terms, Elarion. But I want something in return, in addition to your allegiance."
Elarion focused on Calen. "What would that be?"
"One of your tributes."
A murmur rippled down the table.
Elarion's knuckles whitened around the goblet. "You're overreaching."
"Am I?" Calen said with a smile.
Elarion's gaze darkened. "I do not have powers over all the Tributes of our Kingdom, I'd need to consult my kin —"
"There's no need," Calen interrupted. "I already know which one I want."
His raised his hands, slow and deliberate, pointing across the table.
Every gaze followed.
"She'll do."
He was pointing at her.