“The High Priestess.” The vizier explains, “She represents intuition, divine wisdom, instincts. An incredibly useful Arcana, and one I share.”
“Thank you,” Kasper says blankly, mouth a taut line as they fold the card back into the deck and reshuffle.
He bows his head and walks back to the others, and soon, a woman from the crowd eagerly takes his place. The excitement grows around me as the throng surges toward the front. They accept all this so easily. I let the newly minted half-druids stream forward to find out how much power and possible riches await them and linger at the back instead.
I put my hands on my knees and breathe, but my senses are too heightened. I can smell the citrusy grass mixing with the dew at my feet. The charged scent of cedarwood and vetiver trailing Prince Draven, the clean linen and iron of the guards, the smoke and cinnamon clinging to King Silas. I break away and stumble toward a small fountain, hands stretching for the water. Splashing some on my face might reset my sensory overload, yet I only stare in horror at my reflection when I reach it.
It’s not my face anymore … it’s the enemy’s.
My eyes glow with gold, my ears are pointed, and my hair … it’s horrifically tamed. The curls have given way to something silky and straightened. It’s sleek and shines so brightly it looks infused by the moon hanging above, a clear contrast to my skin.
The courtiers of Westfall might say it’s beautiful now, yet to me, it feels like a betrayal of who I am. A forced assimilation, a stripping of my heritage and my history. Nearly everyone on the Isle of Riches had the same wild curls, and now … they’re gone.
I open my mouth, and hot tears well as I see the fangs bared back at me. My pointed, immortal ears, the brightness in myeyes like freshly minted gold. My breaths are ragged and uncontrolled as I gape at the hateful image of myself. I can’t risk showing weakness here. I can’t even remember the last time I let myself shed tears. This will not break me. The immortals will not have the last laugh. Slowly, the fangs recede as my breath steadies.
“It’s going to take some getting used to,” a soft voice says at my side. It’s the red-haired girl, her ears and fangs pointed like mine, her acidic-green eyes glowing. I quickly wipe my face as she stares at her reflection over my shoulder. Somehow this transformation nearly suits her. Her freckled skin glows golden, whereas it was pale, almost translucent before. Her hair is fuller, the orangish coloring infused with gold streaks. But she doesn’t look any happier than me. “I didn’t think this is what became of the Selected. We really are dead, aren’t we?”
“In every way that matters,” I reply, turning to watch as someone else eagerly steps forward, placing their hand over the king’s deck.
The line before the king is dwindling. Those who’ve received their Arcana seem trapped between joy and confusion. The druids are giving us magic, turning us into them, but this was supposed to be a punishment, a damnation. Of all the fucking scenarios that have plagued me leading to this moment, being handed power was not on my list. “Why would they give us power? Wasn’t the Selection designed to hurt us?”
“I … don’t know.” The girl’s brows come together. She turns, staring over her shoulder at the others. “I didn’t think about it like that. I assumed taking us from our lives was the punishment.”
I mull over her answer.
“What’s your name?” I ask, needing all the information I can gather. Between the Oath and now the offering of magic, I don’tknow what will come next. Maybe she’ll have gleaned more information or maybe become an ally in a den of vipers.
“Ember.”
“I’m Rune,” I reply.
Her head quirks as though she wasn’t expecting that. She smiles, though, nodding to me, and I return it.
“You better get up there,” she says. “Don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Oh, but I am trouble.” I don’t know what makes me say it, but she giggles and the tension of everything that’s happened lessens. Looking to the shrinking line I ask, “What was it like? Doing magic?”
“Well, trouble, it was an odd sensation. Like a vibration from my wrist to my palm.”
“What chose you?” I don’t know what the options are beyond Kasper’s draw.
“The Star.” She shrugs her svelte shoulders. “No idea what it means yet.”
I walk to the meager line in front of the king, waiting my turn.
What would the world beyond the Wall, in my small territory and others, think of the knowledge we couldbecomeimmortals? Would they vie for the opportunity to become elves and seraphs? Would they beg for places among druids?
I stand in line dead last, and when my turn comes, the king’s eyes change from a tired sort of boredom to a flaring interest. I don’t understand him or what kind of game he’s playing. But I put my hand out over the deck of cards he cradles nonetheless, wondering how stupid I look. Even in this altered body, there’s no obvious tingling of magic, nothing unexpected.
I feel absolutely nothing.
Then everything.
If the king wasn’t watching me so interestedly, I’d have gasped from the pull of the cards on my hand. An invisible weight is tied to my small hand as it hovers, and it takes everything to hold it back from slapping down against the deck, as though an anchor weighs down my palm. My body tilts forward …
I force my fingers upward as that pull grows stronger, and the cards begin to part, shifting. There’s a tremor—I don’t know if this is normal. Kasper’s drawing seemed much smoother. I should’ve watched the others …
The wrenching becomes unbearable, and I grasp my wrist with my spare hand and force it upright. I gasp, and a card fires out of the deck. The king catches it from the air as if a dagger had been hurled at him.
