‘Let go of me,’ I hiss. ‘Let go of me, and I won’t kill you.’
This time, I see his smirk in full form. It’s infuriatingly attractive given that he is pure evil. ‘What makes you think I won’t kill you instead?’
‘Etta,’ I say simply. ‘Either we both leave here tonight, or neither of us does.’
‘You sound pretty confident for someone with no magic.’
‘I am,’ I lie.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing how that confidence holds up with five chances to die, Thorn. One each moon cycle.’
A question I’ve already asked myself rears its head once more. What the hell does Kyor need the gifting for? He’s the prince and the entirety of Morathka will one day be his. Wrohelm, Rowell, Dorain, Galreck, the Eastern Isles – all of it. And it’s not as though he’ll suffer any consequences if he kills me. He could end this now and carry on his life without a second thought. And yet, his grip loosens. A moment later, he steps back from me and turns around.
‘If you know who stole the blades from here, tell them to put them back,’ he calls as he strides away without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Only when the gates to the battle yard swing shut do I drop to my knees and let out the deepest sigh of my life.
What the fuck just happened? I’m alive. That’s what happened. For the second time since I arrived here, I’m alive when I really don’t think I should be. I just hope this Gods-blessed luck lasts long enough to get me through the trials, too.
My face itches,unused to the ink now painted across my skin. Unlike the initial offering and the balls, Rettlings are expected to attend the inauguration in full fighting attire. That means furs, weapons, and, last but not least, our battle sigils. Just like all the other Morathkian Rettlings, mine consists of the symbols of my hometown and my fealty Gods, and while I might not have Wrohelm tattoos, it feels wrong not to place the blue concentric circles on my cheeks.
It’s been over a decade since I’ve attempted to draw my sigils, and my rings of Wrohelm are decidedly wonky.
‘Gods, I hope I’m getting this right,’ I mutter, taking the blue dye and marking my fealty Gods next. A spiral above my brow line for Etta – for all life is centred on her – and beneath the circles of Wrohelm, a single line and inverted triangle made of six solid blue dots for Aitara, the Mother of Gods, in honour of my own.
As I try to steady my hand, memories of my parents arise. My motheralways marked my skin, but my father did hers. Not because he was better at it, but as a gesture of partnership. A sign that he was as devoted to her Gods as he was to his own. I take the pain of that memory and let it burn through me, doing all I can to transform it into anger. I’m going to let this drive me, push me through the inauguration and whatever it involves. Iwillget through this.
My eyes sweep around me as I enter the battle yard. My fighting leathers are black to show my fealty to Wrohelm, the Dorainians are in navy blue, the Rowells in blood red, the Galreckians in emerald green, and the Eastern Islanders in royal purple.
Clusters have formed: knights in their maroon red in one group, and then five smaller splinter groups of nobles gathered in their city colours. Despite the seemingly city-based solidarity, I know I won’t be welcomed in the Wrohelm cohort, so I make my way over to the groups of islanders. My hair already marks me as an outcast, so wearing black among a sea of purple is nothing to me.
‘My little sister Carys told me all about the Sunken Temple before we came. She did a tonne of research,’ Llinos is saying as I join the group, ‘especially about the blood vow. One year, every Rettling had to fill an entire cup with their blood.’
‘That can’t be true,’ Coulter replies before adding worriedly, ‘Can it?’
‘No,’ Benny says firmly. ‘Carys was just winding Llin up. Ninety percent of the time it’s been a slice to the palm.’
I had plenty for breakfast, but I’ve also placed a couple of pastries in a cloth bag that’s slung over my shoulder. I guess old habits die hard, although now I’m grateful I did. If they do take a cup’s worth of blood, some sugar will speed up my recovery.
‘And the other ten percent?’ I ask, only for Benny to suffer from a sudden lapse of hearing.
‘Nice blade,’ he compliments Jai instead.
The boulder-esque man shrugs as he glances down at his belt, where several blades are sheathed. The one Benny is talking about has only the hilt visible: hammered metal with bone inlay. Something twists uncomfortably inside me, but then again, I’m sure it’s just a common design.
‘Got it on the boat over,’ Jai grunts in response.
I don’t press him. I need allies, and I’m not losing them on the prince’s say-so. Kyorcould be lying. After all, he might have spotted the blade on Jai’s hip and made the whole thing up. Yet there’s still a heavy stone in my gut.
‘Carriages are coming up from the sixth ring now,’ Loch tells us. ‘Lots of them. I suppose that’s how we’re getting to the Sunken Temple.’
The sixth ring? The fact that Loch can hear that is both impressive and terrifying. I wonder if he could hear it because he was specifically listening for it, or whether he can just hear that far away. If that’s the case, it must be torture at times.
I look over at the other clusters of Rettlings. Thankfully, the Rowell group is a fair distance away from us, and there’s no sign of Kyor yet – though I hate myself for looking – but there’s one person on her own who catches my eye.
‘Estel!’ I lift my hands as I call her name. When she’s looking in my direction, I wave her over before glancing at Benny.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘More the merrier,’ he replies easily. ‘At this stage anyway.’
