I breathe, “What Curse?”
“That no immortal could ever produce heirs again,” he reveals. My stomach begins to churn, my mouth sweating as bile rises. “Every immortal born in Arcadia was cursed. The only way for lines to continue, for our numbers to ever expand, is through the Selection. It’s why changelings are made. Why else did you think they’d take children?”
“To be cruel.”
He looks disappointed in my answer. As if I see the world too black-and-white.
“Immortals have never been kind to their mortal neighbors. But humans took away an ability many hold dear, even beyond the games of succession. In turn, our forebears cursed me and you to this life.” He stands taller, his wings releasing from the wood of the shelf with a groan, fangs sliding back up into his skull, his arms dropping to his sides. I stay against the wood, eyes burning as they threaten to water.
My head spins, but what other response could the mortals have expected, enacting a curse like that? The immortals take and take every year with the Selection, but I didn’t think this was why. Elders are rarely chosen. Only the young and strong are sought after, especially children. To continue immortal lineage.
“Why do they even need a lineage if they live forever?” I growl.
“Immortals can still die, Rune. Not from old age or sickness, but they can succumb to accidents and bloodshed, even if we can withstand more than mortals. We also want to expand our populations, our army. Many died in the War; our numbers were already less than the mortals by half before the War, so of course it was on everyone’s minds,” Draven says, his gaze tracing every detail of my face. “Immortals aren’t gods.”
“This is why changelings are chosen by the elite families? Not because they earned it, or for their power, but … to continue their lines?” Sweat slickens my spine, and I stay frozen against the wall as he turns back to me.
“Yes. Though the two go hand in hand. Changelings get more power and security, and the royal lines survive. At least … in a way. They share no blood with their heirs, but they get to choose them. Train them.”
My thoughts spiral and I ask, “The druid-born here … are they all changelings like you? Picked as children and raised in the Court?”
“Not many. Druids are still …selectivein taking children. Only orphans.” He fiddles with a ring. “Most of our classmates are the last of the druid-born. Mere children when they were cursed. Like Mira and some of her little sycophants; it’s likely why they hate changelings so much.”
Because we will have what they never will. Whether we want it or not. Immortals don’t just want to expand their ranks by bringing in mortals they can transform into changelings, but to breedfertileones, untouched by the Curse, and therefore able to sire the next generation of druids, circumnavigating the Curse altogether. Disgust fills me. The Curse is cruel, but so is the Selection the immortals made to combat it. Though the Selection is not the punishment I thought it was … it’s worse. The mortals’ twisted self-preservation robs me of making the decision of bringing a child into this twisted world and forces the choice onto me instead. It guarantees mortals’ survival, at the cost of our freedom. This is what Ward and Amaya were talking about. How long did the druid-born think they could keep it a secret …
“Why the secrecy?” I try to swallow, but my throat’s too dry.
Draven’s head tilts, and he runs his tongue along his teeth. “I guess they realized changelings tended to perform better and had a higher survival rate through the Descent when they thought the magic came without a price.”
“Everything has a price.” Nothing is free. My anger toward the immortals grows again. My choice to have children or not should rest in my hands, no one else’s. I want to scream it at him, but he’s a changeling, too, stuck in a similar position. “So … your betrothed … the seraph princess … she’s a changeling?”
“Yes. Let’s just say our king owes a debt to Nevaeh, and they demanded that payment be made by blood.” Draven stalks to his bed again, collapsing atop it, running his hands through hishair as he lays on his back. His wings dissipate in smoke, his horns, too, the Moon Arcana shining at his side, channeled by the World. I didn’t know he could take those immortal markers away, but the Moon is the shapeshifting card.
What’s left is someone very human, very raw. So, this is what he looked like before the Selection: a beautiful disaster. Draven speaks to the coffered ceiling, “Ansel will lead the druids when it’s time. But my father resents this because Ansel’s Arcana is Judgment, like his. Only you and I have drawn the World in centuries. He wants my power to lead our people, but he’s stuck with this betrothal as much as I am.”
“Why is that?”
Despite the rest of him appearing so mortal, the color of his gaze still sifts, a ruby hidden beneath sapphire sands. “When Kieran Ceres was captured, the seraph king wanted him executed along with all the other rebels and their children. My ‘father’ stayed his hand, insisted on a trial.”
He pauses, taking a breath. “Their plan was to kill Ceres but villainize him enough to prevent martyrdom among the mortals. But they failed to realize that his alchemist had already given Ceres the Curse and the trial provided a perfect audience for an assassination of royal immortals. Its power killed hundreds of gathered immortals, including the seraph king’s first wife, and spread from sea to sea, affecting every immortal in Arcadia. The seraph king has blamed my father and his mercy for it ever since. He demanded blood in return, and they settled on this stupid fucking betrothal.”
My head spins at the information and Draven’s surprising candor. A deep-seated distrust slithers out—he could be lying, but to what end?
“I’m not lying, Wraith. If you don’t believe me, you can check the history text wedged beside where you hid that littletrinket on your bookshelf. The answer’s been there the whole time.” Draven smirks as my heart jolts in my chest. Ever since he returned my father’s necklace, I’ve kept it hidden away, not wanting to get caught with a personal item. Despondently I think of the little broken king of my brother’s that was taken from me.
“I’ll invite you to stay out of my head, and my room.”
“Only my magic has entered either, and only the latter because my father’s also been spying on you, but if you’d like him to listen in, I’m happy to stop collecting them.” He slides me a sarcastic smile, and I just roll my eyes.
Of course I don’t want that. I fidget. I didn’t know what to look for, or that such magic existed, but my room feels less safe than before.
“And I’d be out of your head if your thoughts weren’t so damn loud.”
“Did you want me to know? About the Curse?” I don’t know why he would.
“I think everyone should know. It’s your body. Your fate.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I’d known sooner.”
I release a breath. There’s nothing about his behavior that reads as a lie. “So … your father can’t just break the betrothal?”
