The sun had completely gone down, yet the field was so well lit there was clearly no need for the sun.
The air pulsed with noise—drums thundering from corners of the arena, laughter echoing beneath gilded archways. Aria stood silently beside Zyren on the high platform, her hands clenched at her sides, the gentle fabric of her red dress sliding against her ribs with every breath. She felt exposed up here, like prey placed on a pedestal.
Zyren sat sprawled on a throne that could only have been carved for a god or a monster. Twisting vines of silver and obsidian curled around its arms and legs, with bloodred rubies glinting from the high backrest like watching eyes. His fingers curled loosely around one of the armrests, rings glinting as he turned slightly to glance at her.
"You're trembling already, little flame," he said, his voice velvet and mockery rolled into one.
"I'm not," Aria replied, though she was. Her knees were barely holding her upright.
