POV: Ravenna
The plan is simple.
Too simple, maybe, but sometimes simple works best.
During the night session prep—there's always a prep period where candidates study the updated board before the actual trial—I'm going to switch Theron's strategy notes with fake ones. Wrong information. Bad tactical advice. He'll walk into the trial thinking he has one plan, and the board will have completely different conditions.
He'll look incompetent. Confused. Unworthy.
Father will see it. Veyron will see it. The whole court will see it.
And maybe he'll withdraw from the competition on his own.
Then I won't have to be the one who rejects him.
"You look like you're about to commit murder," Morgana observes from her seat beside me.
We're in my chambers. I'm supposed to be getting ready for tonight's feast—there's always a feast between trial sessions, because apparently watching people strategize war makes everyone hungry—but instead I'm pacing.
"I'm not going to murder anyone."
"No, just ruin someone's reputation. Much better."
I whirl on her. "What else am I supposed to do? Just—just give up? Marry one of them and pretend I wanted this?"
"Or maybe—and here's a wild thought—actually get to know them instead of assuming they're all terrible?"
"I know Lucien is terrible. Did you hear what he said yesterday? 'Just pawns.' He was talking about people, Morgana."
"Okay, fine, Lucien's a piece of shit. What about Edmund? He seems nice."
"He's grieving his dead wife! I can't compete with a ghost!"
"And Theron?"
I stop pacing. "What about him?"
"You kept vigil over him all night, Rav. You think I don't know what that means?"
"It doesn't mean anything. I was just—guilty. About the arrow."
"Right. Guilt. That's why you can't stop looking at him during trials. Why your face goes all soft when he talks. Why—"
"My face does NOT go soft!"
"It absolutely does. You look like someone hit you over the head with a feelings stick."
I grab a pillow and throw it at her. She catches it, laughing.
"I don't have feelings," I insist. "I have a plan. And tonight, during prep, I'm executing it."
Morgana's laughter dies. "Rav. Don't."
"I have to."
"Why?"
"Because—" My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. "Because if I don't, Father will make me marry one of them. And I can't. I can’t, Morgana."
She stands. Crosses to me. Takes my hands.
"Love," she says gently, "you're going to have to marry someone eventually. You know that, right? Your father isn't going to just drop this."
"Then I'll run away. I'll fly somewhere and—"
"And what? Live in a cave? Eat rabbits? You can't even make your own bed, Rav."
"I could learn!"
"You could. But you won't." She squeezes my hands. "Because as much as you throw tantrums and stamp your feet, you love Cindravale. You love your dragon. And somewhere deep down, you love your father too, even if he's being a controlling ass about this."
I hate that she's right.
"Just—" She hesitates. "Before you sabotage Theron tonight, ask yourself one question. If you succeed, if he leaves the competition, will you be relieved? Or will you regret it?"
I don't answer.
Can't answer.
Because I don't know.
***
The war room is quieter at night.
The prep period is supposed to be private—each candidate gets an hour alone with the updated board to study and plan. But I know the guards' rotations. Know where the hidden passages are. Know how to slip in unseen.
Perks of being princess: I know every secret this palace has.
I'm tucked in a dark corner behind a tapestry when Theron enters.
He's alone. Still has his arm in a sling, though Lysander said he could remove it in a few days. He moves slowly to the table, studies the updated scenario with those amber eyes that see too much.
The fake strategy notes are already in place. I slipped them onto the table an hour ago, positioned exactly where the real ones would be.
All he has to do is read them. Follow them. Make catastrophic mistakes during tomorrow's trial.
Simple.
He picks up the notes.
My heart hammers.
He reads them. Face expressionless. That stone mask he always wears. Then he sets them down. And doesn't move. Just stands there, staring at the board.
What's he doing? He should be studying the notes, planning his strategy, doing SOMETHING.
Instead, he's just—still.
Minutes pass.
Then: "You can come out."
I freeze.
No. No, there's no way he knows I'm here. I've been silent. Perfectly hidden.
"Princess Ravenna." His voice is quiet. Not angry. Just—knowing. "Please."
Damn it.
I step out from behind the tapestry, chin up, ready to brazen this out. "I don't know what you're talking about. I just got here."
He turns. Looks at me. "You've been there for twenty minutes. I could hear you breathing."
My face burns. "I wasn't—I was just—"
He picks up the strategy notes. Holds them out to me. "These are wrong."
"I don't—"
"The map coordinates don't match the board. The supply lines are reversed. And the tactical advice contradicts itself in the third paragraph." He's still holding them out. Still looking at me with those too-knowing eyes. "You wrote these."
It's not a question.
I could deny it. Should deny it. But something about the way he's looking at me—not angry, not accusing, just—sad, maybe—makes the lie stick in my throat.
"Yes," I whisper.
Silence.
He sets the fake notes aside. Picks up what must be the real ones from his pocket. He brought his own. Of course he did.
"Why?" he asks.
"Why what?"
"Why sabotage me?"
"I'm sabotaging ALL of you. It's not personal."
"It feels personal." He says it so quietly I almost miss it.
"Well, it's NOT. I just—I don't want to marry anyone. So if you all fail, if you all leave, then Father will have to cancel the competition and I can—"
"Go back to your life."
"Yes! Exactly! Is that so wrong?"
He studies me for a long moment. "No."
I blink. "What?"
"It's not wrong. You didn't ask for this. Didn't choose it." He looks back at the board. "I understand."
"You—you do?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you enter? If you understand that I don't want this, why participate?"
Pause. Long enough that I think he won't answer.
Then: "Hope."
That word again. The one he'd said on the ramparts.
"Hope for what?" I demand. "What could possibly—"
"You."
The air leaves my lungs.
"Me?"
"The bond." He touches his chest. Where his heart is. Where mine is pounding. "Havoc recognized Solace. I felt it. Even before entering the throne room, I felt it. And I thought—" He stops. Swallows. "I thought maybe this time. Maybe after five rejections, this time I'd—"
"Don't." I'm shaking. Actually shaking. "Don't say it."
"Find home."
He said it anyway. And something inside me cracks.
"I can't be that for you," I whisper. "I can't—you've been hurt so many times and I'm—I'm awful, Theron. I'm trying to sabotage you right now. I throw tantrums and break things and I'm spoiled and selfish and—"
"You're human." He takes a step closer. Then another. Until he's right in front of me and I have to tilt my head back to see his face. "Not perfect. Not a fantasy. Just—real. And maybe that's what I need. Someone real."
"You don't know me."
"I'm learning you."
"And what you're learning should make you run."
"It doesn't."
"Why not?" I'm almost shouting now. Tears threatening. "Why won't you just—just leave? Give up? Reject ME for once?"
His hand comes up slowly. Gives me time to pull away. When I don't, his fingers brush my cheek. Gentle. Careful.
"Because five people taught me I wasn't enough," he says softly. "And I don't want to teach you the same thing."
Oh.
Oh gods.
The tears spill over.
"Use the fake notes," I choke out. "Tomorrow. Use them and fail and leave and—"
"No."
"Theron—"
"I won't use them." He steps back. "I'll compete fairly. And if you want me gone, you'll have to reject me yourself. Honest. No sabotage. Just—tell me to leave."
He waits.
I open my mouth. The words should come easily. "Leave." "Go." "I reject you."
Three simple words. But my throat closes around them.
"I—" I try again. "You should—"
Nothing. He nods once. Like he expected this.
"I'll see you at the trial tomorrow, Princess."
He leaves.
I stand in the empty war room, staring at the fake notes on the table, and cry.
***
The second day of the Trial of Mind is brutal.
Lucien dominates again. His strategy is even more ruthless than before—he sacrifices an entire village to win a key position. When Veyron challenges him on it, he shrugs.
"They were going to die anyway. At least this way, their deaths meant something."
I watch Father's face. He looks—troubled. But also impressed.
Edmund struggles. His kind heart keeps making him choose mercy over victory. It's admirable. It's also losing him the trial.
Roland and Brock are the disasters. Actually manage to somehow defeat their own army through sheer incompetence. Veyron looks like he wants to throw something.
Then it's Theron's turn.
He approaches the board. Studies it.
I hold my breath.
He could use this moment to expose me. Could tell everyone what I did. Show them the fake notes. Reveal my sabotage.
Instead, he plays. And his strategy is—brilliant.
Better than yesterday. More aggressive, but still protective of his people. He finds a way to win that minimizes casualties on both sides.
Veyron actually smiles. "Now that’s warfare, boy. Victory with honor."