“It’s a scale,” he says. “And if we’re found lacking, they’ll shoot us.”
I glance back toward the bridge. Several of the Illari have crossed over, their weapons notched. I didn’t hear them make a sound, never even felt them. I fight to keep my panic at bay, but it sweeps into my senses, and my breath comes out in shallow puffs. Manuel unsheathes his machete, much good it will do him from this distance.
“We have to be weighed,” I say. “It’s the only way.”
“One day,” he mutters, “I’d like to not fear for my life while in your company.”
“Nonsense. You’re not afraid of anything.”
He hesitates before slowly returning his attention to me. Dark eyes troubled. There’s a current of confusion and dismay hidden in the deep lines bracketing his mouth. As if he’s just realized his worst fear and it involves me. “That’s not true.”
“What are you afraid of?”
His lips flatten. “Not the time.”
A small smile threatens to tug my mouth, but it’s overruled by the widening pit deep in my belly. I might die in the next few minutes. I try to figure out how we can climb up onto the wings. And then I see the way up, subtle and nearly hidden by the great feathers. The statue has steps carved along the side of the vulture’s body.
“I’ll go first—”
“Absolutely not,” Manuel snaps, and before I can say another word, he races up the steps and settles onto the middle of the right wing. Terror seizes my body, the blood rioting in my veins. The Illari press closer, until they’re only a few feet away from me, but I barely notice. I can’t tear my gaze away from Manuel.
He sits cupped in the great wing, and waits. And then the head of the vulturemovestoward Manuel, peering at him with coolly assessing eyes. My breath lodges at the back of my throat. Manuel stares up at the bird, unwavering, a stubborn set to his shoulders. He grips his blade, readying to start swinging at anyone who comes near him.
I thought I loved him when I knew him at the Illustrian keep. But this person has captured every corner of my heart. His bravery and loyalty, his exasperating sense of duty. And right now, in this moment, as he glares with unflinching confidence at an enchanted statue.
I clutch at my arms, terrified of losing him.
There’s a loud grating noise as the vulture’s left wing descends to the ground and Manuel is lifted higher. The vulture has weighed his heart and deemed it worthy for life.
I sink to the ground, my ears ringing from my heartbeat thrashing against my ribs. I was prepared to fight all of the Illari. Manuel climbs down the stairs, loud, furious stomps. I expect to see profound relief cut into his features—but his dark eyes are twin fires, blazing and angry. He scowls at the crowd of people surrounding us and then at the statue.
It’s my turn to be weighed.
There is no hope of escape.
Manuel offers his calloused palm to help me stand. I take it, feeling the reassuring strength of his hand, and then I brush past him. With shaking knees, I climb up the steps. My mind crowds with thoughts of my failures. I’m responsible for Sofía’s and Ana’s deaths. I’m the reason why Illustrians have died, terrified of starving because I didn’t know how to manage our food resources. If I’d been stronger, maybe Ximena would have seen a worthy queen. Instead she saw a weak royal incapable of leading. I want to plead my case to the statue, defend myself against the damning evidence. But I remain quiet and push my hysteria down into the depths of my soul, where it might never be found.
Not even by magic.
By the time I reach the right wing, it’s returned to its original height, waiting for the next heart to be judged. I scoot onto the middle, tuck my legs close, and inhale deeply, willing myself to remain calm. The Illari raise their arrows and aim at my face, my stomach, my legs. If I fail this test, it’ll be a massacre.
Manuel tilts his head back. “Catalina.”
My name is a soft caress, and I shiver as the sudden warmth beats away my fear. I lean forward to catch his eye, and raise a brow.
“You are worthy,” he whispers.
I’m thankful to be sitting, and for half a second I forget that I might die, might bleed all over this white stone. The vulture moves its head and faces me. I force myself to meet its hard gaze, but my hands are laced tightly in my lap, fingers turning bone white. The blood drains from my face as I keep my mouth shut, even as protests bubble up to the surface.
You are vengeful and proud, a voice inside my head whispers.
A soft gasp escapes from my lips.
You have been wronged, but you are doing wrong yourself. Change is within reach, a fine balance. If you ignore the signs, you will fail and lose everything and everyone you hold dear.
My stomach twists.
Even now your heart is closed.
