And losing wasn’t an option.
Feywood hadn’t won the Decemvirate in seven decades, and our magic was hanging on by a thread. I felt the effects of it every day; the extra effort it took to perform simple spells, the way my mind was more sluggish after using too much magic, the number of people who came into the shop needing healing potions because they could no longer make their own.
This tournament and its cruelty was the price of that magic, I supposed. But it shouldn’t be. Not wheneveryemperor for the last three centuries could have put an end to it, could have decided to replenish the magicequallyand without conditions, yet continued to keep up this spectacle. All for the sake of maintaining power and wealth—the Decemvirate brought hordes of inter-provincecommerce to the capital, lining the emperor’s coffers with gold from all the visiting spectators.
Money and magic. The only things our dear leaders cared about.
I gripped a tin of crushed dandelion leaves from the bag so tightly that the thin material dented with acrunch.
Beth’s brows pinched. “How areyoudoing with everything?” she asked. “Have you decided if you’re going with them to the capital or staying here?”
A strand of dark hair fell across my eyes, and I blew it away, releasing some pent-up tension. “I’m going. Morgana keeps trying to convince me not to, but I found someone to watch the shop for the month. It’s probably my only chance to ever travel outside of Feywood. I can’t pass that up, you know?”
Beth finished laying out all of our new supplies on the counter, then buckled the straps on her bags. “I’ve always wanted to visit the capital, but I can’t say I’m jealous. You need to be careful, Rose. I know we were both only fifteen the last time the Decemvirate came around, but this one feels…different.” Her shoulders shivered. “I can tell. I see it in all the provinces I deliver to. Things are getting worse—fights breaking out in streets, border guards not letting us cross over, whispers of the stronger provinces wanting to expand into the weaker ones. And Emperor Gayl doesn’t seem to care. As long as he gets his precious Decemvirate, the people can do whatever they want. And the challengers this year…” Beth trailed off, then grabbed my hand, her hazel eyes shadowed with worry. “Ragnar needs to be ready.Allof you do. I’ve heard the one from Iluze in particular is a piece of work.”
A sliver of dread slid down my spine, but I shoved it away and squeezed her hand. “We’ll be careful, Beth. I promise.”
She looked like she wanted to say more, but at that moment, Beau reappeared. “I put the money up and recorded everything for the day,” he said, moodiness still lining his voice.
“Great.” I straightened. “I’m going to go check those orders youleft out for me. Can you help Beth put the supplies where they need to go?”
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled. I covered my mouth to hide a smile and shared a look with Beth.
She winked at me before cheerily saying, “So, Beau, there’s this pretty girl I deliver to a few streets away…”
This time, I didn’t bother hiding my laugh as I walked into the back room.
2
Rose
To anyone else, the back room of the Arcane, which doubled as extra storage space and my personal workshop, was in desperate need of organization. But to me, it was perfect, orderly chaos.
A rickety wooden shelf stretched to the ceiling on the left wall, reinforced over the years by several rods of metal. It housed dozens of supply bins—empty glass vials, parchment for labels, bags, twine, candles. The back wall contained most of the gardening tools and a door leading to our greenhouse. That was where my Aunt Morgana liked to spend most of her time—she had a natural green thumb, and I was more than happy to hand her the reins. Herbs and spellcasting were her strong suit. She grew and nurtured the various plants we needed for the Arcane’s most sought after herbal remedies, and once harvested, I sorted through them and replenished our stock.
Most nights, I stayed up far too late experimenting with new potions and spells, feeling a sort of freedom and comfort under the solace of the moon. Along with filling up my own Grimoire, I’d inherited both of my parents’ when I turned sixteen. Even after nine years, I still found hidden treasures buried deep in the fading pages.
My gaze drifted to the right wall of the room, where my work table and shelves resided. On the table beneath a layer of stray moss, candles, and basil leaves rested both mine and my mother’s Grimoires, hers flipped to a page in the center full of her notes. I’d fallen asleep the night before with my cheek plastered to the thin parchment.
An involuntary pang shot through my chest at the sight.
I’d never known my mother. Never felt her arms wrapped around me, never heard a soothing lullaby from her lips, never looked into her green eyes or saw the curl of dark hair. Aunt Morgana often told me how much I resembled her, and I had a small portrait of her and my father in the locket around my neck, but it did little to fill the hole that had been carved from my life.
Becauseof my life. Because she had died giving birth tome.
Reading her spells and potions, following each dip and curve of her letters…it was the closest I’d ever get to knowing her. To seeing her. It was like she was speaking to me, even now, eager for me to learn the magic she’d held so close to her heart.
The backs of my eyes prickled and I blinked the sudden emotion away, burying it beneath my weathered layers.
A chilly burst of wind ruffled the ends of my raven hair. A shiver crawled across my skin as a few leaves flew through the open window above my desk, sending seeds and crushed petals sprawling. I crossed to the window, surprised I’d been careless enough to leave it open, and quickly jerked it down.
The beginning of autumn was approaching, and in Feywood, that meant strong winds, brisk nights, and the smell of snow in the air. Lingering scents of firewood and burning herbs washed over me, the muted sounds of townspeople mulling about the main square just a block away from the apothecary still audible through the window.
Autumn was normally my favorite time of year. When the darkened leaves flowed like crimson and orange waves beneath my feet, the brightness of the moon stirring the Alchemist magic in myblood, the smiles of strangers and whispers of spirits and crisp scent of spice and smoke…it awoke something in me.
But not this year. Not with the cloud of the Decemvirate hanging over our heads, and the fact that soon, my entire family would be packing for the month-long visit to Veridia City.
I brushed a windswept strand of hair behind my ear, then paused.
