The courtyard was alive with noise, restless as a hive struck by a stick. Servants in their plain gray robes pressed shoulder to shoulder on the outer terraces, their murmurs rippling like waves colliding against stone. The annual Servants' Competition was no grand sect tournament with banners, trumpets, or the blessings of the elders. It was little more than sanctioned spectacle, a chance for those consigned to menial chores to throw fists at one another and pretend, for a heartbeat, that they too carried worth.
Lyra stood on the edge of the circle, her hands clammy, her throat refusing to swallow. She had not wanted to come. Zara had dragged her here with that stubborn tilt of her chin, whispering, If you skip it, they'll call you coward forever. Better to lose badly than live bowed.
But what Zara did not understand was the danger of winning.
The air seemed too sharp, too full. She could feel it pulsing inside her skin, the residue of the Shadow Sovereign's core. It thrummed when she was anxious, as if delighting in her fear, eager to surge free at the smallest provocation.
She curled her fists, nails biting into her palms. Not here. Not now.
"Next match," the steward barked, his voice dry as gravel.
Two names were called. Not hers. Relief shivered through her ribs. She exhaled.
Beside her, Zara leaned close, her voice low. "Don't hold back too much, Lyra. They'll sniff weakness like dogs. Show them enough to shut their mouths, but nothing more."
Lyra glanced at her friend. Zara's eyes were hard, protective, but they did not know the truth. If Lyra showed even a fragment too much, it would not be the servants gossiping she had to fear, it would be princes and empresses.
On the high dais at the far side of the courtyard, where such petty contests should never have mattered, Prince Kieran himself had arrived. He stood apart from the cluster of officials, arms folded across his chest, his dark hair catching the light in a way that drew whispers from the crowd. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, swept over the ring like a hawk over fields.
Why was he here? He never attended servant amusements. Unless…
Her stomach turned cold.
"Match twelve! Lyra of the Inner Kitchens versus Ren of the Outer Stables!"
The name struck her like a gong. Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up. The crowd parted, the circle widening, jeers and cheers mixing in equal measure. Ren was already waiting in the ring. Taller than her, broad-shouldered, with arms that had known years of shoveling hay and muck. He grinned, showing a missing tooth, and the grin said plainly: I will enjoy this.
"Little kitchen mouse," he taunted, loud enough for the circle to hear. "Don't worry, I'll end it quick. Wouldn't want you crying before the prince."
Laughter rippled. Lyra's cheeks burned. She looked away, not toward the prince, never toward him, but the laughter stung.
The steward raised a hand. "Begin!"
Ren lunged.
His fist came toward her head like a hammer. Too fast. Too heavy. Her body moved before her mind gave permission. Shadows stirred, thin and cold, sliding across her skin. Her foot twisted, her weight dropped, and she slipped past his punch with impossible grace.
Gasps tore from the crowd.
Lyra's heart slammed against her ribs. She had dodged too easily, too smoothly. She forced herself to stumble, making the motion look clumsy, desperate.
Ren sneered. "Got some tricks, mouse?"
He swung again, harder. Lyra ducked, sidestepped, her muscles humming with unnatural sharpness. She wanted to strike back, to let the power bleed through her knuckles, to feel the satisfaction of impact. She bit it down. Just a shove. Just enough.
Her palm struck his chest.
Ren staggered, then flew.
The force of her touch sent him skidding across the ring, dust exploding beneath his heels. He crashed into the circle's edge, gasping, clutching his ribs. Silence crashed down heavier than the blow itself.
Everyone had seen it.
Too strong. Too fast. Too much.
Lyra froze, terror clawing her throat. She had only used a fragment of what seethed inside her, but even that fragment had turned a stablehand into a rag doll.
The steward gaped, his mouth working soundlessly. Finally, he croaked, "Victor… Lyra."
The silence broke into chaos.
"She, did you see,?"
"Impossible, she's a kitchen rat!"
"No servant fights like that."
Zara's face was pale but alight with pride, her hands clapping furiously. "You did it! You shut them all up!" she whispered.
But Lyra felt no pride. Only the heavy weight of eyes. Too many eyes.
On the dais, Prince Kieran leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her as if she were no longer the insignificant servant he had once interrogated, but something far stranger. His lips curved, not in a smile, but in the ghost of realization.
And beside him, though hidden behind her veil, Lyra felt the chill of Empress Seraphina's presence. The Empress rarely revealed interest in such affairs, yet there she sat today, still as carved jade, her hands folded. Watching.
Lyra's victory had not freed her from mockery. It had chained her to notice.
The crowd still roared when the steward raised his voice for the next match, but Lyra barely heard it. The shadows beneath her skin pulsed, eager, whispering. She had tasted too much release, even in that single strike. The Sovereign's core inside her throbbed like a second heartbeat, murmuring in a language she did not yet understand.
When she finally dared glance toward the dais, she found Kieran still watching. Not cold. Not cruel. Simply curious. That was worse.
I must hide. I must disappear back into nothing.
But how could she, when the Empress herself had seen her?
The matches continued. Lyra withdrew to the edge of the courtyard, shaking, refusing Zara's attempts to celebrate. She forced herself to breathe shallowly, to remain invisible. Yet every whisper carried her name now. Every glance weighed her down.
By the time the competition ended, the servants' gossip had already hardened into something else.
"Kitchen girl? No, demon girl."
"Did you see the shadows? I swear I saw them."
"She struck him like a cultivator."
Rumors. Rumors sharp enough to draw blood.
Lyra pressed her back against the cool stone wall, eyes closed, hands trembling. She could not undo what had happened. The secret she had sworn to bury had slipped, just enough, and now the wrong people had scented it.
She opened her eyes. Across the courtyard, Prince Kieran was descending from the dais. He moved unhurried, yet every step seemed deliberate, a predator approaching prey. His eyes never left her.
Zara noticed and tugged Lyra's sleeve in warning, but before Lyra could retreat, before she could vanish into the crowd, a voice cut through the din.
Velvet, soft, commanding.
"Bring the girl to me."
The Empress had spoken.
And suddenly, the courtyard fell silent once more.