Weakness is a cancer that must be purged. Hyperia knelt upon the cool tile of her chamber, her skin studded in gooseflesh as the night wind sighed over her. She’d washed her sister’s blood from her face and removed her soiled gown. Clad in a nightdress of fine, pale gold cloth, her hair cascading to the middle of her back, she placed her hands over her breast and closed her eyes. She did not pray. There was no need, when the Great Dragon knew all. But she felt centered at night beneath the stars in the sky and found comfort in her own immovable soul.

Chaos is destruction; order stasis. Chaos is weakness; order strength. Chaos is experience; order purity. These thoughts repeated themselves on a comforting loop.

But the loop snapped when Julia’s face emerged, as if floating up from the black depths of Hyperia’s subconscious. Her beautiful, pale sister, a red slit open at her neck like a grim second mouth.

Stasis. Strength. Purity. Order.

The words dropped in her mind, like the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Julia,” Hyperia gasped, falling onto her hands and sobbing into the floor. Her breath washed back hot on her face. She pressed her forehead to the tile, her nails trying to dig in, to find purchase on something. How could she sleep tonight? How could she sleep again? Yes, she had been the only right choice to come here, and, yes, she was needed, but the price. “My baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She sat up, rocked back and forth as she wept into her hands. She wanted to run wild under the moon, tear every golden strand of hair from her head, plunge into the sea, and let the waves swallow her—

No.

“Weak.” She braced and slapped herself hard across the face. The sting returned her to her senses. Her palm was wet from the tears. Unacceptable. Hyperia clenched her teeth before striking herself again. And again. And again. The pain ebbed, the chaos bled from her soul. Gasping, she got to her feet and smoothed back her hair. She was all right. This turmoil would pass quickly. It had to.

The curtains bulged in the wind as she turned to her bed, the blankets golden and lush, the pillows stuffed with goose down. The empire needed her, and she needed her rest for tomorrow.

But her fragile calm shattered when she found her sister sitting up against the cushions, her legs crossed at the ankle.

“Julia?” Hyperia blinked. The apparition remained, a perfect image of her sister with flowing chestnut hair, delicate folded hands, and a slit throat. Gore covered Julia’s golden dress front, but her smile was the most disturbing decoration of all.

It was no dream. Trembling, Hyperia took her dagger from the table next to her and unsheathed it. Heart pounding, she stepped backward and felt the gauze curtain mold itself against her body. All the while, Julia smiled and watched her.

Why draw her dagger? What did she have to fear from a ghost?

Unless the dagger was for herself, because she didn’t know how long she could gaze into her dead sister’s eyes until she ran absolutely mad—

“Hello? Are you all right?” a deep voice said behind her. Hyperia whirled around, thrusting the curtain aside to prick her dagger against Lucian’s throat. He swallowed, allowing the dagger’s sharp tip to almost—almost—pierce his flesh.

“I—” Hyperia glanced over her shoulder. Julia had vanished. She turned back to the Sabel boy with a cool air. “Why did you sneak up on me?”

“I was walking back to my room when I heard crying.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought someone needed help.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You ought to be more careful. Time away from war has made you sloppy.” She pressed the dagger a millimeter farther to show her point. Unperturbed, Lucian held up his empty hands, displaying how utterly unarmed he was.

“I’ve sworn never to raise a blade against another living soul.”

“What an idiotic vow.”

She exhaled lightly and stepped back. He remained outside, dark against the night. Meanwhile, the lamp’s fire warmed her back and, she knew, highlighted the brightness of her hair and clothes.

“I’m sorry you won’t compete properly,” she said.

He smiled. “That’s a polite way to lie.”

“I don’t lie.” Her temper pulsed. “You’re the only competition that matters.” The others were near her in age, but to Hyperia they might as well have been trundling around in a nursery for all the challenge they presented. “You’re my equal, or near to it.”

Lucian frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment for either of us.”

Hyperia noted coolly—academically—that Lucian of the Sabel was handsome. That his looks combined with his abilities, and even his deferential manners, would be attractive to people. Just not to her. It wasn’t specifically him; Hyperia had not yet known desire. If she experienced it one day, that would be fine. But she wasn’t going to force a sensation because the world deemed her age and, apparently, her beauty required it.

She did not want this young man, but she wanted to compete with him. She wanted a clean, honest victory.

Before she could speak again, he said, “Besides, you convinced me at dinner.”

“What?” She finally lowered the dagger to her side.

“I wasn’t going to throw myself into the Trial, until you started talking.” His features were unreadable, but he seemed sincere. “I think the way you see this world is ugly. The empire is crying out for peace. I won’t break my vows to achieve it, but I’ll give everything I have otherwise.”

His words warmed her. “Thank you. My victory will be honorable, at least.”

“Don’t think that.” He let the curtain drop, so that he was little more than a talking shadow. “There’s no honor for people like us.”

He walked away, leaving her to sheathe her knife and get into bed. Julia wasn’t beside her when she put out the lamp.