A boy of about twelve shuffled at the end of the line, his sandy hair askew and a dusting of freckles across his nose. He stared at his feet, though his pride-filled gaze darted up periodically.
Father’s voice softened as he stopped in front of the boy. “Young Tavel here showed wisdom beyond his years. When his schoolmate began moving objects without touching them, he came directly to the palace guard.”
The boy’s chest puffed.
I wondered where the other child was now, how scared they must be.
“Amarissa,” Father said. “As Lady of Mercy, I believeyoushould have the honor of presenting this special medal.”
This wasn’t part of the ceremony.
Father watched me, and I sensed him measuring my composure, my loyalty.
The crowd murmured their approval.
I moved slowly over to where the boy waited with my father. The child looked up at me, his expression a mix of awe and anticipation. My father placed a golden medallion on a crimson ribbon in my bloodstem-stained hands.
I closed my fingers around it. It was heavier than it looked, designed to make the recipient feel the weight of their importance. My father’s gaze remained on me while the medallion seared like a red coal in my palm.
I lifted the ribbon and placed it around the boy’s neck. As I settled it on his chest, I yanked it to the side rather than center it like my father always did.
“May you never forget what you’ve done,” I whispered.
Just as I would never forget whatI’ddone.
The moment the words left my mouth, guilt scorched across my tongue. He was only a boy repeating what we’d all been taught. But if no one made him question it now, he’d grow into another man like my father.
The boy looked down at the crooked medal, confusion creasing his brow. When he lifted his gaze to mine, shame and uncertainty crossed his face. Or maybe that was my own feelings reflecting back at me.
My father gripped my arm tight enough to leave a bruise, and shoved me to the side. While I regained my footing, he straightened the medal, centering it perfectly on the child’s chest. The look he sent after gouged through me. Suspicion. Warning.
“Let the celebration begin,” he cried, turning back to the crowd, leaving me standing in front of the platform, my small rebellion already erased.
Music erupted from the village musicians, drums and pipes joining together in melodies meant to chase away the solemness of this moment. Dancers in bright costumes spilled into the square, weaving between tables now being laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and honeyed fruits.
With my father’s glare gouging into my spine, I returned to the top of the platform overlooking it all. A servant offered me plates of delicacies, but how could I eat?
The revelry swirled around me, people laughing, drinking, celebrating life in the shadow of death.
A festival built on bones.
I remained perfectly still, the mask hiding the nausea that kept roaring up my throat. Somewhere in this crowd, a family was missing their son, their mother, or their friend. And somewhere, perhaps, was the golden-eyed stranger, watching with the same fury I felt burning across my soul.
I’d thought of running many times. Leaving this place to find somewhere new. Better, if such a place existed. But if I left, I’d help no one. So I stayed and did what little I could.
“Little” wasn’t enough anymore. Something had to change, and I was beginning to realize I might be the one who could change it.
A guard pushed through the revelers, his face flushed. He stepped up onto the platform and executed a quick bow to my father before leaning close to speak in his ear. “Rebels have attacked.”
Father’s face twisted, and his growl rang out, making a few of those celebrating nearby pause and look his way. “Where?”
“The reformatory.”
The world tilted, the sounds around me dulling as blood rushed into my ears.
Leo had been taken there this morning.
I tightened my fingers to fists.
