“Oh.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess not.”
“Be at the southern edge of Auxin Forest. Do you know where the waterways between Stellargrove and Moondance Haven converge?” He looks over his shoulder at me. His eyes feel like frost creeping over glass. His mouth is tight and grim.
I nod, but don’t get up.
“Don’t be late. We’ve left supplies on the dining table.” Then Taron slinks down the stairs and out into the night.
My feet propel me downstairs after him, where I slam the door and lock it. Not that it should do anything to stop him if he returned. I lean my back against the door.
“Taron,” I mutter, and his name tastes acrid on mytongue. That cold, distant expression of his continues to play before my eyes. To come into my home and take my sister’s lifeless body… Does he have no conscience? No heart?
But why allow me to say goodbye to her? Was it all some sick ploy to ensure my cooperation in the plan? Or was he actually being kind?
I grit my teeth. There’s no way I can compete in the tournament with him. I refuse, and yet … I have to. I know I do. I don’t have a choice.
My turbulent thoughts grind to a halt as I notice a leather rucksack on the kitchen table. He mentioned supplies. The rucksack’s top is flung open to expose a menacingly long knife. I shiver as I wonder what I’ll be expected to use it for.
I toss the knife aside in disgust. It lands on the floor with an awful clatter. If I’m truly committed to going through this, I’ll opt for my shears in whatever beastly trial we face. They’re delicate and precise, and at least I know how to use them.
I run my palm across the smooth, glossy leather of the rucksack. It has a subtle iridescent quality, with a sheen that shifts between muted greens and browns.
This has to be real, made from Lorthen hide. They’re massive reptilian beasts with tough skin that roam the rocky highlands of Wrisha, feeding off rare minerals said to make their hide resistant to elemental forces. Their skin is expensive – very.
Deeper down in the satchel, I find a flask, a few rolls of bandages and a shimmering golden brooch. It’s a piece worn by every competitor in the Reckoning, a badge to signify one of the three principalities as their home.
My fingers trace the emblem, the Astralorian insignia: a crescent moon nestled among the sprawling branches of an ancient tree, surrounded by stars.
As children, Elara and I would cobble together our own Reckoning brooches from any stones and bits of fabric we could find. Stellargrove would transform into Aurora Isle, the legendary island and tournament grounds that emerge only once a decade during the Obsidian Eclipse, a rare celestial event when our three moons, Crea, Vita and Mors, align in perfect synchronization. We’d chase each other around the forest, letting the allure of a granted wish fuel our adventures.
Now, what was once a childhood fantasy has morphed into a bleak reality, a looming storm-cloud that casts a shadow over me.
I polish the brooch with my sleeve before tucking it back into the bag. It’s supposed to symbolize honour, but, for me, it will forever be a reminder of my shame.
The other competitors will wear it with pride, carried by a determination to bring glory to their principalities. I’ll be wearing it as an impostor.
Finally, I see the note beside the bag.
May these provisions serve you well, dear girl, as success is the only outcome I’ll accept in exchange for your sweet sister. May the Breath of the Ancient Spirits help you realize your full Emo talents.
Sincerely, Madame Vera
So that’s her name, then. Madame Vera.
I collapse on to the kitchen floor, and my sobs reverberate like thunder in the confined space. My chest churns with equal parts fury and hopelessness. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get back up again, when—
A prickling sensation. The presence of a dark, oppressive energy in the room. I tilt my head up. At the top of the staircase, the form of a young woman lingers in the shadows.
Elara. Or rather, her Soul Wraith. It must’ve materialized from the torment she experienced in her final moments.
She starts walking down the stairs, and I strain to breathe. My lungs feel like they’re filled with sand. I want to run to her, wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tight.
But then a ghastly smile stretches across her face, like a serrated scar, and I remember,it’s not her.
The Soul Wraith slowly descends the stairs, grinning at me the whole time. It has an apron tied around its waist. Elara’s apron, an old white thing with pink frills that used to belong to our mother. Spoon in one hand, mixing bowlin the other, the Soul Wraith potters about the tiny kitchen, swinging open cupboards and toying with the dials on the oven. I should purge the energy – I know I should – but I can’t.
