The first instalment of the Games Master’s Post showed up on our doorstep the very next day – as it did at every door across the three principalities – and Elara was only a frame short of hanging it on the wall.
Sure, the Reckoning only comes around once every ten Stellar Years, when a rare eclipse calls Aurora Isle to rise from the Sea of Storms, but I can’t find it in me to be interested in some masked figure’s ramblings about a tournament that’s practically a death wish.
Three deadly trials over three days. Twelve teams of two – twenty-four teams this year, to celebrate three hundred Stellar Years since the tournament’s establishment – contending against the island and its unpredictable obstacles. The grand prize is a single wish, granted by a star that fell from the sky centuries ago.
A smirk creeps across my lips. I can already predict the wish will be squandered on some form of self-serving nonsense.
The last tournament’s winners were a pair of arrogantguys who wished to become the most handsome men in the world. They returned from Aurora Isle as celebrities and remain in the spotlight even now, gracing high-society events and attending book signings for their memoir,The Price of Glory: A Reckoning Story.
Then, of course, there’s the selection process. It’s so elitist.
The High Council, comprised of the rulers and one elected representative from each Principality, conducts The Draw in a grand arena packed with nobles, scholars and curious onlookers willing to pay handsomely to witness the spectacle.
Each submitted team name, written in ink mixed with drops of its players’ own blood, is sealed inside a glass sphere and placed in a crystal vessel filled with shifting sand. One by one, the High Council members take their turns picking a team.
The rulers of the three principalities draw first, followed by their chancellors, until all the teams have been chosen. Each time a name is pulled, the glass sphere is shattered on the ground, and the chosen team is announced to a roaring crowd.
When the ballot first opened in the winter, Elara made a joke about the two of us submitting our names together as a team.
“I know what I’d wish for,” she’d said, dreamily lying beside me in bed. “I would wish to have Mum and Dad back. So that we can be a family again.”
I remember scoffing, then. “Sorry, El, but we’d have a better chance at winning the lottery than that death sentence of a tournament. You know the survival rates. Only rich heirs and heiresses with egos big enough to think they’re invincible submit their names.”
“I’m just dreaming, Tal.”
I knew that. Because even if we wanted to enter the Reckoning, we couldn’t. The chosen competitors are almost always city-born and Academy-trained. This is because if you’re not enrolled in one of the ten Principal Academies or other recognized training facilities, you can consider your entry automatically rejected.
Anyone undergoing private training may only enter if they are registered and personally approved by the High Council. And for that, you need money. Lots of it.
I’m about to stop by the coffee stand across the road from my work when I notice the inky tendrils of energy coming off the ivied exterior of Ye Old Herbcraft, Alaric’s apothecary. The same blend of fear and grief permeating the rest of the village.
What is going on this morning?
The bell above the door jingles as I enter the apothecary, and one of the celebratory garlands Alaric hung above the doorframe comes tumbling down. I stand on my tiptoes to tuck it back into place. Red and gold, the Reckoning’s signature colours.
Sacrifice and glory. Blood and prestige.
As I turn back round, I let the rich, earthy scents of the shop envelop me. It’s a cramped space, but every inch of it drips with greenery.
Rows of dried herbs hang in bundles from the ceiling – sage, rosemary, respalyptus and wiqa stalk, releasing sharp, peppery notes as I pass under them – and the shelves are stocked with oils, tonics and poultices for every ailment imaginable.
Alaric is engrossed in conversation with his band of retired gossip-mongers, most of whom I suspect only tolerate him to cash in on the friends and family discount.
I brace myself for a lecture, but Alaric barely notices me as I scuttle past to grab my apron from the back room; doesn’t even glance in my direction as I proceed to mist the selection of herbs in the window display.
It’s normally one of my favourite morning pastimes – hiding behind a curtain of bright-red sunfire pepperleaves while eavesdropping on the group’s gossip – but from the energy coming off them this morning, I’m not sure I want to hear it.
“Found the merchant face down, they said,” Lucius, a retired astrologer, laments.
My attention sharpens. I pause my misting and glance over.
The group is gathered around the sales counter, with Alaric at the centre, hunched over today’s newspaper.
“Found dead in his room in the Stellargrove Inn,” hereports, fingers combing through his long, white beard. “It says here Moby was the one to make the discovery. Can’t be good for business, I reckon.”
I choke on my coffee.Found dead?How horrifying. No wonder the entire village is whispering about it. And poor Moby, too. He’d only inherited the inn from his late father a few months ago. The place had been teeming with Soul Wraiths – some with histories dating back to Stellargrove’s origins as an agricultural plantation for the Astralorian royal family.
“Well, with that face, I’d wager the man was no stranger to trouble,” another man grumbles, thumping his chubby fist on the counter. Dallard’s his name. He’s some kind of bigwig on the town council.
