One of the servants gathered my long blonde hair, twisting it into a simple knot at the nape of my neck. Unlike my younger sister, Addie, who’d inherited Father’s dark curls and needed an hour with a hot iron to achieve any semblance of order, my hair fell in natural waves and didn’t need much attention.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache from yesterday’s training session with Commander Thorne. The fighting forms he’d brought from his homeland required stillness and control, so different from the traditional swordplay many in the court mastered.
My ladies adorned me with jewelry. Earrings. A bracelet. And a glittering ring on each of my fingers.
The final touch was the mask. Everyone knew who I was beneath, of course, but it was time for me to fully become the Lady of Mercy.
One of the servants stepped forward, cradling it in a deep-red cloth. Bone-white and polished to a mirror sheen, it had been carved into the shape of a woman’s face, one blank and silent. Only the eye openings would reveal the true me.
I wondered if Addie felt equally hidden behind the elaborate court fashions of her new home. My sister had left a month ago, her trunks filled with silks and jewels rather than ceremonial robes. Father had commissioned an entire wardrobe for her new life.
“Perhaps your sister’s new husband will appreciate her sharp tongue if it’s accompanied by a sharp style,” he’d muttered after another of their arguments. Addie had laughed, that fearless sound I’d always envied.
Mae opened the door and entered the room, her face no longer splotchy and her eyes filled with fury.
At my nod, she lifted the mask.
The moment it touched my skin, I disappeared. My throat tightened. Each time I wore it, it took longer to remember who Amarissa was.
I worried I’d one day take the mask off and find nothing beneath.
As I crossed the foyer, my plain sandals swishing on the ornate marble floor, guards swept open the intricately carved, wide wooden entrance doors. I stepped out of the castle to instruments wailing and the low murmur of conversation in the distance. People would be gathering in the village center, coming to bear witness to this Day of Mercy that was anything but merciful to those who’d shown even a touch of magic.
Father emerged in matching ceremonial robes, his gold circlet catching the sunlight.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear. His gaze lingered on my face, and the flicker of old pain there told me he was remembering our mother.
I nodded, and we descended through the castle gardens toward the gate far ahead, the scent of blossoms clogging my nose. It was all I could do not to rip off the mask and let my face breathe.
The enormous steel gates yawned open as we approached, flanked by life-sized stone dragon sentinels, their wings unfurled, their necks stretched out to shoot flames at the sky. Sadly, my court hadn’t stocked a dragon aerie for many generations.
As tradition dictated, I remained a pace behind my father. I walked alone in silence, wondering if my mother would recognize the woman her daughter had become.
The ceremonial mask itched as it shifted on my cheekbones, the morning breeze doing nothing to cool my inner fire. Three years ago, when I’d fallen ill the night before the Day of Mercy, Father had broken tradition, performing the ritual alone rather than forcing me from my sickbed.
“The Lady of Mercy deserves mercy too,” he’d said, sitting beside me later, holding my hand.
“He canceled two council meetings when you fell ill, Isi,” Addie had whispered later, her voice full of admiration. She never called me Amarissa, just Isi. “He’s never even postponed one for me.”
Below us, the village waited like a woven tapestry, full of terraced gardens, markets closed for the day, and metal rooftops reflecting sunlight. Star-thorns and ghostbells tangled over trellises along the road, releasing a heavy perfume that clung to the back of my throat.
A path of scattered white petals marked the way ahead, traditionally strewn by the youngest royal daughter. With Addie gone, the task had fallen to the villagers instead. They lined the winding road, bowing low.
A small girl darted close, a bloodstem flower clutched in her hand.
“For you, Lady of Mercy,” she said, holding it out.
I knelt and took it, its stem warm from her touch. Even kneeling, I towered over the child. My height had always made me feel awkward. But the little girl didn’t seem intimidated by my tall frame or the mask that hid my face.
“Thank you, sweet one,” I said.
She beamed, clutching her hands to her chest and swaying her long skirt across the tops of her polished shoes.
I straightened and caught up to walk behind my father.
The village square came into view as we descended the last hill. Elders waited in the center, wearing the traditional sky-gray robes of judgment, their faces hidden behind golden visors. Thirty villagers stood in the center of the elders, adult men and women of all ages. Only they wore white, and a mix of grief and defiance filled their faces.
Soon, they’d drink the ashwine.
