“It’s a gift from my mother—” I say, yanking my hand away. His touch still lingers on my skin.
“It’s magical,” he notes thoughtfully and cocks his head. There is no question in his words, but I feel the necessity to explain.
“It is casting a minor glamour. Concealing a burn mark I have—” My mouth is suddenly so dry that talking is a challenge. His gaze slides down my collarbone and shoulder and he studies my scar, now fully on display after my green scarf was lost somewhere. I do not fret under his scrutiny. The scar is a part of my story, a precious memory of my life before the Fae messed it up, and I don’t care if someone finds it unpleasant to look at.
“Why didn’t you take it off? Seelie artifacts are to be reported and handed over to the authorities,” he states, his pupils turning sharp as needles. Icy sweat trickles down my spine. It’d be better if this bastard decides my fate faster and sends me away.
“I can’t, it’s too tight.”
He laughs. The sound is cold and humorless, like the rattle of weapons on a moonless night, the hissing of a snake unfurling.
“Oh, of course you can; you’ll have to lose a hand.”
Even Magister Deepwell pales at these words. “Which would be a pity, as you are just about to volunteer for the Nightfall Trials,” he says impassively, his gaze still pinning me. The corner of his lip curls up. This monster looks amused.
The heavy silver waters of the magical lake inside me roar and chant my name, seducing me to use their power.
“I am what?” I ask, naively hoping that he means something else.
“You are about to volunteer as a tribute for the Nightfall Trials. As your province still hasn’t presented a participant, I believe it is divine timing that we found you just during my visit here.”
He crosses his hands behind his back, turns around, and strolls toward Myrtle and Tayna. The hall has grown quiet, the crowd holding its breath.
I raise to my feet and take a step to follow him, but Magister Deepwell stops me. A warning is written all over his round face before he steps aside and lets me pass.
Elders help me. The governor looms over my little sister, his hands casually resting on her shoulders as he’s looking straight at me. Cruelty flickers in his eyes when he asks,
“Are you going to pledge yourself now before these honorable townsfolk, Talysse, or would you prefer to do it before me and Magister Deepwell?” I ignore the way he hissed my name and focus on my sister. Her innocent hazel eyes are wide with marvel, her blonde crown braid messy. She’s oblivious that she is in the hands of a murderer.
“Or do you need some convincing—” He doesn’t finish the threat, but his fingers dig deep into the soft skin of Tayna’s shoulders, and she winces, looking up at him in surprise.
“Talysse,” the magister is next to me in a swift move, unexpected from his plump body, “consider your choice wisely.”
“And what choices do I have, Magister?”
“Volunteer for the Trials and represent Satreyah, earn respect and the chance for riches and a better life, or face charges for an attempted murder of a diplomat,” Deepwell announces sternly.
“And witnessing your co-conspirators face charges for harboring a criminal and not reporting a mage to the Magistrate,” the Unseelie Governor declares in his cold, non-human voice.
I bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming. Once again, I get to relive this terrible feeling of powerlessness, just like the time when the City Guard kicked down our door and arrested my parents.
But this time, I’m not a frightened child anymore. Life on the back alleys of Tenebris has taught me how to stand my ground, sprout claws, and bite.
When fate hasn’t granted you any advantage others have in this life, you can rely solely on your mind. It is the one thing they cannot take away from you.
“I volunteer for the Nightfall Trials.” The words roll loud and clear. The hall shakes with applause.
“Very well. You leave at dawn.” With these words, he withdraws to the shadows.
When life gives you sour apples, you should brew some sour apple cider, they say. When life gives you sour apples, steal some milk, flour, and eggs and bake a fucking pie is the motto I live by.
I haven’t chosen this path, yet it is a consequence of a strain of poor decisions. And here I am, ready to bake some pie.
Talysse
A Feast in the Wastelands
Volunteering for the Trials hasn’t changed my prisoner’s status; I’m still in my cell deep in the Governor’s Palace dungeons. Still, it has just brought me some luxuries, like blankets, a bucket of fresh water and food delivered every couple of hours. Another luxury appreciated above all was Myrtle’s visit. She reassured me that Tayna was safe, delivered back to her adoptive family and that the magister cleared them both of all charges. She thoughtfully packed a pair of soft velvet pants, a clean cotton shirt whose color was barely recognizable, and a leather doublet that looked nearly new and probably expensive. A lump got stuck in my throat when she tried to distract me with stories from the inn and Stebian’s antics. We blinked away tears and laughed like children, and just like that, the guards announced that the visit was over.
