I’m breathless, sweating, and cold as I stare at the back of the card, bearing the same golden symbols as the rest of the deck. The king holds it up, his mouth a tight line, nostrils flared, and for a moment I think he’s angry. But then he passes it to the vizier as if it’s nothing, spoiled by the fact the vizier gulps when he touches it.
I watch them carefully, waiting for whatever news will break. Is it bad? My hands curl to fists at my sides as I quickly count the guards surrounding the king, the exits of this place. Could I run, fight them if it came to it? Or would the Oath force me to endure whatever punishment they see fit?
The vizier starts hissing into the king’s ear and I catch the wordimpossible. My eyes flash toward Prince Draven as he peers over his father’s shoulder, a strange battle waging in that look. Surprise, certainly, as he blinks it back, but when his gaze finds me again, he looks at me more critically, his eyes assessing every inch of me.
“That good, huh?” I ask the prince with a wink. Let them think I’m at ease as I strategize my options.
Prince Draven shakes his head at me, rolling his eyes, and he releases a huff.
“Mistakes do happen.” There’s a certain challenge in his voice, as though he’s daring me to prove him wrong.
The king doesn’t explain, merely takes the card back from the vizier and folds it back into the deck with deft hands, shuffling it with ease. He tells me, “Draw it again.”
“I don’t understand. Did I do it wrong?”
“Do it again,” King Silas orders.
Prince Draven’s eyes flicker between his father and me. I clench a fist in anger before laying my palm flat again, hovering above the tarot deck. This time, the king’s eyes are on me, intent. King Silas passes his spare hand between the air, dividing me from it, as if to be sure I did not somehow trick him before cupping the deck again. A strange thought occurs, more feeling than word, that I have somehow unsettled the king of druids.
The pull calls again. It’s like lightning striking the base of my skull—emotions spin out within me.
My hand shakes worse than before.
“What are you feeling?” the king asks quietly.
I take a moment to answer, my hand resisting the pull of gravity. “Unimaginable weight.”
“Are any of your other family members moon-blessed?”
So interesting that they see being mixed as a blessing, whilst mortals view it as a curse. I eye him uncertainly, but the truth spills out.
“My mother was lava-cursed; my brother … we weren’t sure, his hair was brown but, in the light, sometimes emerald. But he was Selected too young to fully tell,” I confess, nearly gagging as the words tumble out. Like I couldn’t resist it or his questions. Maybe I can’t now that I’ve sworn the Oath, and that thought unsettles me.
“He wasn’t the only one Selected from your line … was he?”
“No—” But I cut myself off before I can elaborate this time. The enchantment presses in, broiling around me, growing hot enough to make my hair curl again. The pulse of magic claws at my throat. I see a flicker of annoyance cross his face.
“Stop resisting.”
“He was Selected when we were six.” I gasp, “My father when I was thirteen.”
“That would’ve been the elves, and the seraphs … yes?” King Silas demands.
“Yes.”
He looks me over as if he’s searching for lies. “Where’s your mother?”
“Your people took her the year after.” I grit my teeth. Glaring into those dominating silver eyes. I’m not sure I’ve hated anyone so strongly.
“I don’t remember any lava-cursed being chosen then.” It’s Prince Draven, breaking my staring contest with his father.
“That’s because she avoided it, and your people came and broke down our door.”
Draven’s gaze narrows beneath that mask, and I realize in a jolt of fear that I’ve revealed I was also avoiding Selection, and if I saw what happened to her, then surely I was with her.
“So, everyone in your family was taken then?” Draven asks but I don’t feel compelled to answer him and I realize a flaw in the Oath. I think only the king can force the truth from me.
“You came here with hatred in your heart. I felt it the moment I saw you,” King Silas interrupts. It’s not a question. “Choose.”
