Yet not everyone is willing to pay the pricegoiteíademands.
With each use, your soul magic is drained, and the glowing energy dwindles—taking a little of your life force with it. A few days out of hundreds of years isn’t significant, but extensive use ofgoiteíacould end a life in mere moments.
The other form istheïkós,intrinsic magic running through bloodlines, granting control over the seasons and their elements. This is the magic of nymphs, their descendants, and the gods themselves. But when the new kingdoms arose in the aftermath of the God War, the Anemoi giftedtheïkósto the new monarchies. They bequeathed the power of the seasons to any with the right blood flowing through their veins.
Summer for the south, autumn for the east, spring for the west, and winter for the north.
The power of the wind and skies, they kept to themselves.
Theirdivine domain.
As a daughter of the Sotiría bloodline—the royal line of the Sorrows—my affinity should be for the fire and heat of summer. But the sun’s flame has never sung to me. Never beckoned me with the allure of its fiery power. Never whispered its secrets in my ear.
Another condemning mark against my name in the eyes of my father.
My disdain for the soul magic isn’t common among other tycheroi. For me, it is deeply personal. It was how my mother saved my life the day I was born—by carving an ancient symbol into our chests and begging the Anemoi to accept her sacrifice. The symbols faded as my mother did, and the only evidence it occurred is long since buried. But the warm glow of the magic in my chest doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, and the thought of burning through something so precious makes my stomach revolt.
“Oh, wipe the tragic look off your face,” Skiepo says. The tone of his voice and the arch of his brows tell me it’s not the first time he’s spoken. “People have to make money somehow, don’t they?”
I fix him with a narrow-eyed stare, but he meets it with one of his own. Deep brown eyes peering at me through thin slits. “Did you make all of those?”
“Don’t be daft, girl. I lack years for carvinggoiteía.”
I don’t doubt it.
Since I’ve known Skiepo, his hair has faded to the same shade as the dust coating his untouched curiosities. Wisps curl around a face etched with so many lines it resembles the intricate grain of the well-worn counter he now leans against.
It’s as though he’s transforming into one of his oddities. Someday, I’ll visit and likely find him sitting atop a shelf, another object gathering dust in some forgotten corner.
Somewhere deep in my mind, a dissonant chord strikes at the thought, the sound resonating through me, leaving a lingering sense of unease in its wake. I rub my chest, trying to shift the sensation. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call megirlanymore.”
“We agreed to no such thing. I’m almost five centuries old, and you’re essentially an infant,” he huffs. “Besides, I’ve got nothing else to call you.”
“All right then,old man.” I let my hand fall, rolling my eyes so hard I thank the gods they don’t get stuck in the back of my head. Skiepohatesnot knowing my name. Especially since I’ve been coming to his shop every quarter for the past few years. I’m a month early—but with any luck, he won’t remember.
He huffs again, but the small uptick to his lips is smug this time, likely chalking this conversation up as his win. “What can I do for you? Need a new graver to carve away your problems? Perfume to make men swoon, perhaps? I got a fresh batch, straight from the flower fields of Reveza.”
He wriggles his wiry brows at me, and I bite my tongue, forcing back the laugh that pushes up my throat at the absurdity of it. “When have I given the impression of wanting to make men swoon?”
Undeterred, he shrugs. “There’s a time for everything. I once knew a girl—”
“I need more somniseed,” I say, cutting off another enthralling taleabout thegood old days.I’ve endured my fair share of those, and I have places to be.
The old man’s brow knits into a frown, his wizened lips wrinkling as they press together in a firm line. “What happened to the last vial? You only picked it up two months ago.”
“A friend needed some.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but the words come easy. “So, if you have a spare vial, I’ll take two.”
Skiepo worries his bottom lip, his eyes raking over my face as if he might read the truth written there.
He won’t.
With a slump of his shoulders, he shuffles behind the curtain, reappearing with two small corked vials in his hand. The seeds inside shimmer like tiny black pearls. The dim light in the store shifts over their surface as he places the vials on the counter.
My arm snakes out to snatch them, but his hand closes over mine. Our eyes clash, and my next breath catches in my throat at the concern I see shining in his. For a man who peddles black market items, he sure is reluctant to hand them over.
“Tell your friend to be careful,” he says, relinquishing his grip. “Only one seed every three nights.”
Breathe.
