Mira faced one final obstacle—the pit.
It stretched before her like the gaping maw of some forgotten beast, wide and perilous, its depths churning with unnaturally vivid blue water. The color, of course, wasn't natural.
It had been dyed—by none other than Princess Charlotte.
"For effect," she'd proclaimed, chin lifted with regal pride as she swept in with a flourish and poured in the dye. Then, with a wicked grin, she'd added, "And because I'd like the unlucky to resemble smurfs for a week."
Now, Mira stood at the edge of the run-up, rolling her shoulders, gauging the distance. Her expression was calm, focused, though her drenched braid and mud-smeared tunic bore witness to the brutal course she had already survived. Fewer than a dozen had made it this far.
Above, Charlotte leaned over the balcony railing where the royal spectators looked on. The golden sunlight crowned her curls like a halo—though her grin was anything but angelic.
"If you succeed, Mira," Charlotte called out, hands cupped around her mouth, voice syrup-sweet, "you get cake!"
Elias stood beside her, suppressing a laugh behind his hand, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as Mira braced herself.
Mira didn't respond.
She ran.
Fast, fluid, and fearless. Each step struck the churned-up earth with purpose, kicking up puffs of dust. She pushed harder, legs coiled like springs, and launched herself with a battle cry muffled behind clenched teeth.
She flew.
Almost.
The tip of her boot struck the ledge—just barely. It scraped. Her arms windmilled, grasping for balance—
—and with a thunderous splash, she plummeted into the pit like a stone flung by fate.
Blue water erupted in a spectacular geyser, soaking the platform, the spectators, and a very unfortunate scribe who'd been shielding his scrolls.
Silence.
Then, slowly, Mira rose—arms extended, fingers dripping, every inch of her now stained an indignant indigo.
She said nothing. Simply threw her hands up in theatrical, deadpan exasperation, water streaming from her brow and nose like punctuation.
Then, with perfect comedic timing, she signed:
Where's my cake?
A beat—then Charlotte collapsed into laughter, gripping the railing, breathless with mirth. Elias reached out without looking, catching the back of her sash before she could pitch over the edge, his other hand half-hiding a grin.
After the Trial
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the trampled yard. Mira emerged from the pit like a warrior reborn from the sea, boots squelching with each step. Her tunic clung to her frame, sodden and stained. She looked, in all seriousness, like an extremely irate blueberry.
But heads turned.
First in surprise—then in admiration.
A ripple of applause spread through the crowd—tentative, then gathering strength. It wasn't about victory. It was about grit. Perseverance. Heart.
She hadn't claimed the flag. But she had faced every part of the elite course—the parts others had feared. And she had refused to quit, even when she fell.
And that, Charlotte knew, was worth far more than a win.
She bounded down the stairs two at a time, skirts gathered in her fists, heedless of decorum, and met Mira at the edge of the field, beaming.
In her hands: a towel, and a cupcake. The frosting matched the pit exactly.
"A reward," Charlotte declared solemnly, as though bestowing a medal of honor, "for courage, conviction, and an absolutely spectacular fall."
Mira took the cupcake with soaked fingers, raising a single brow in response.
Charlotte leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Next time," she murmured, "we rig the ropes. No one said we couldn't be creative."
Mira's dripping brow creased—then lifted slowly. She looked at the princess, expression unreadable, then gave the faintest nod.
Charlotte's grin widened into something wicked and gleeful.
"She's one of us now," she told Elias, glowing with pride.
Elias watched them as they walked off—Mira with the towel draped over her shoulders, blue frosting already smeared on her cheek, both of them whispering, plotting.
Their heads were close. Their steps, in sync. Mayhem danced between them like a spark looking for kindling.
And for the first time in weeks, the training yard didn't feel like a battleground.
It felt like the beginning.