Meet me at the finals. It seems there is much to be discussed.

— A. V.

The coppers spread the news like wildfire. The finals of the tournament are only a few hours later, but when I take my usual seat in the royal box, everyone already knows that I am the copper Silas kissed then tiraded against Madame for. 

When I reach the royal box, I'm expecting the high nobility to gawk at me like an animal at the zoo, but no one is there except for Prince Eldor. My one consolation is that finals will be cancelled soon enough, since Silas is still too injured to fight. 

That is if Aerwyna does not cast me out like a leper first.

"Isobel." Prince Eldor gestures at me from the center of the royal box, drawing even more eyes my way. "Have a seat."

On stilted legs, I do as the crown prince commands, leaving a healthy space on the bench between us. I try not to flinch when Eldor leans forward, giving me his full attention. Under his stare, I am over-conscious of every breath I take. It's bad enough he knows my name.

"How are you?" he says.

It's an innocuous question, which is the fae's favorite method of attack. Put you at ease, then strike while your guard is lowered. "Terrible. I am so sorry for any trouble I caused, Your Highness."

"What trouble? I feel sorry for the trouble my court caused you. The mask business is immoral, to be frank, and I plan on abolishing it once I take the throne. Unfortunately, nothing can be done for the deals that have already been set. How long is yours? Maybe I can give you accommodations once you are free."

"Life, Your Highness. I'm to be buried in copper."

Eldor winces. "Ah... yes, that is most unfortunate."

"So the rumors are true?" Aerwyna stands behind us, holding a gold-plated bowl of grapes. "You and Silas are together?"

She glances between us, her brows slightly pinched. Afterall, the Crown Prince must have a pretty fantastic reason to sit with a copper. That must be why he asked me to sit with him in the first place, to get a feel of his brother's latest fixation. 

I glance Eldor's way, which he mistakes as asking for approval. "I don't care who Silas is with so long as he is happy."

"No," I say quickly.

Aerwyna drops between the two of us, resting the bowl on her knees so we can both reach it. "No? To Silas or the grape?"

"Prince Silas," I say. "You are remarkably casual about this."

She shrugs, popping another grape into her mouth. "The news caught me off guard, no doubt, but I think you two would treat each other well."

"No," I say, even faster than the first denial. And because I cannot give them the whole story, I settle for half-truths. "I was in Prince Silas's debt after he prevented the queen from mistakenly punishing me for theft, so he asked me to help him scare off his latest suitor."

"You mean Madame's daughter?" Aerwyna says, her eyes widening. "Madame, the coppers' overseer?"

"Oh, gods," Eldor mutters under his breath, pinching his brow. "Silas..."

"It's alright," I say. As much as I would enjoy laying into Silas, it's dangerous to push my luck while there are still so many pages left to burn. "Prince Silas stopped Madame before she could inflict any real damage–"

The trumpets blare, jerking our attention back to the fight. There are two entrances to the arena, each on opposite ends of the amphitheater. A mountain of a man emerges from the entrance reserved for deadly beasts, for he is too big to fit through the fighter's entrance.

"Basilisk Van Rike, a noble knight from the Briarwood Isles!" the announcer declares.

"Good gods," Eldor huffs, blowing his bangs away from his forehead. "What the fuck are they feeding the knights in Briarwood?"

When the announcer shouts Silas' name, I lean back in my seat, ready for a squire boy to come running out and announce the prince's withdrawal. But to my surprise, a knight emerges from the shadows of the fighter's entrance, sword drawn and ready to fight. I sit up straight, my lips parting.

"Silas," Aerwyna murmurs, staring at his armour. In his previous matches, he wore much lighter and loser protection to allow for a full range of movements. "Is he injured?"

Eldor squints as he tries to make out more details of the fight below, then gives up with a shrug and a crooked grin. "Nonsense. Silas is in his prime."

The fight begins. When Silas doesn't handle Van Rike like all his other opponents – cutting through him in less than three moves – Eldor's grin waivers. After ten more moves, their swords connecting in bursts of sparks, Eldor's smile has disappeared entirely. He leans forward, his jaw tight as he tracks the fight. 

While Silas is having one of the worst matches of his career, Van Rike is having one of his best, as if the gods shined down on him today and guided every blow with acute precision. 

I cannot look away. Even though I have attended all of Silas' matches, this is the first time his opponent has lasted long enough to watch him fight. And I'm surprised to see that Silas doesn't spar like his brothers. He spars like my twin, Santiago. That is to say, he spars like a human.

I blink, and in the split second my eyes are closed, Silas goes from being neck and neck with Van Rike to a sudden and swift victory. It happened so fast I missed the winning blow. All I see is the aftermath. Silas' back to the stands, and the mountain of a man sprawled at his feet. 

He turns around just as the stands surge to their feet, screaming his name. In the sea of fae, he locks eyes with me, the only one who remained seated. Perhaps he doesn't fight like a human, I amend. 

It's more like half human and half demon.

Thus ends the tournament, signaling the start of a new coronation festivity. Eldor strides down the steps of the amphitheater to give his brother the award for winning the tournament – a golden rose to bequeath to the finest lady at the upcoming ball.

Aerwyna grabs my arm. "What happened with Madame, that was my fault. You were not her to punish in the first place. I should have made that more clear. I am going to make that more clear."

That very night, Aerwyna evicts Madame from court and moves me into the resident artisan's dormitories. Finocchi – dressmaker and overseer of the resident artisans – shows me around. Their setup is similar to the coppers', with long hallways making up several different rooms, but everything is nicer, bigger, and cleaner. It's nowhere near as luxurious as the rooms reserved for the nobles and guests, but it's still worlds ahead of the copper's living conditions. 

After a stroll through the common spaces, Finocchi ends the tour in the paint studio, his long scarlett robes trailing over the marble tiling. The space is far bigger than necessary considering that only three RAs are painters, and the rest specialize in a variety of other disciplines. It's far more expensive, too. 

The Court spared no expense in securing the best materials, the mahogany desk sets filled with the finest brushes money could buy, complete with every shade of paint you can imagine and several more I didn't know existed. At Hunkletoad's desk, the painting I ruined is fixed to his easel. He has barely made any progress fixing it, but then again, painting over thick black marks scrawled around your canvas is no easy task. I'd have to fix it for him, soon.

"Yes," Finocchi says dryly, peering over my shoulder. "I can't imagine what possessed him to make such bold choices, but I suppose not every resident artisans wants to win The Goblet and gain immortality..." he trails off, his eyes drifting to the door. Then he sinks into a bow. "Good evening, Your Highness."

I turn around to see Silas leaning against the doorway, his armour traded for a black cloak laced with silver thread. If he is reeling from fighting a beast of a man while only half recovered from his injuries, he does not show it. 

He looks perfectly at ease as he regards me. "Why don't you curtsey like that when we're alone?"

"Would you like me to?" I reply, straightening back up.

Instead of answering, Silas smiles and redirects his attention to the paintings lining the studio walls. His eyes stall over Hunkletoad's corner, as do mine. I didn't realize how much of my hand had influenced Hunkletoad's work until the evidence was splayed out before me. 

You can track my arrival at court through his paintings, his style slowly yet surely morphing into mine. The only element that stays the same from the first painting to the last is his signature, scrawled in bright red paint.

Silas' eyes slide back to mine. "I didn't realize you had so much free time."

"Those are not mine. They're Hunkletoad's."

Silas' mouth curves as he turns to Finocchi, as if a fish had swam right into his net. "My, what a divine talent he has. Tell me, where did your pupil cultivate such skills?"

"An art academy, I presume," I cut in. "Your Highness, did you have business here?" Besides toying with the closest thing I have to a friend among the resident artisans.

Silas glances at Finocchi, who immediately takes his leave. Once the door shuts behind him, Silas pulls my sketchbook out of his cloak. "It's yours. All but two pages."
I just stare at him, not moving an inch. "What do I have to do?"

"Nothing."

"But – why now?"

"Who can say? Perhaps all those long nights we spent together did the trick."

I stare at him for a beat longer, my eyes narrow. Then, quick like a cat, I snatch my sketchbook and head for the nearest fire place before he changes his mind. When I feed it to the flames, hours worth of work disintegrating before my eyes has never looked so sweet.

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