“Do you always ask this many questions?”
“Do you want me to be prepared or not?”
Taron sighs. “If one person in a team is incapacitated – injured too badly to continue, quits or dies – the team is out. Other competitors might try to target the weaker teammate because of this. You’ll have to be vigilant.”
“How dare you assume I’m the weaker teammate?” My lips pucker with annoyance, even though we both know he’s probably right. I’m only half an Emo, and I don’t even have a lick of training.
Taron disregards my retort. “As for what’ll happen if we’re caught as impostors, it’ll depend on who gets their hands on us first. The Principal Guard or Madame Vera. I’m guessing it’ll either be prison or death.”
My throat feels tight, the pressure of our situation settling in.
Then the watercraft halts, jerking me out of my thoughts. I sit up and stare, my mouth falling open. We’ve arrived at the entrance to Rava, the Astralorian capital.
Towering above us is an enormous stone arch, carved into the imposing wall that encircles the city. Deep grooves along its edges hint at the colossal gates that once stood here, likely during the Great Unrest, a time when the city needed fortification.
Beyond the arch, the waterway intertwines with long cobblestone streets paved with glistening mosaics. Shops, taverns and houses in soft pastel hues rise along the mountainside, climbing higher and higher until they converge at the royal palace.
Two soldiers from the Principal Guard, their black armour gleaming, march towards the watercraft where it skirts along a waterway leading into the city. They raise their hands in a halting gesture.
“What’s the hold-up?” Taron asks the helmsman.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, his tone uneasy. “Keep your fingers clear, the canopy is coming down.”
The helmsman pulls a lever, and the woven canopy covering the watercraft begins its slow descent. Vines and leaves unfurl like delicate fingers, revealing the sky above.
The guard nearest to the helmsman steps forward, his stare piercing. “State your business,” he demands.
Taron hands over the invitational scroll. “We’re here for the Reckoning. We’re competing in the tournament.”
The guard opens the scroll, studying the wax seal and the contents written inside. He narrows his eyes at us, as though that would help him validate our identities.
“Maeve Speck and Wren Hull from Moondance Haven?” he asks, looking between us, and we nod. “I’ll need to see your sigils.”
My heartbeat roars in my ears, a thundering rhythm. I reach into my boot for my shears, briefly fumbling to undo the bronze medallion attached to them.
I follow Taron’s lead in placing my fake sigil in the centre of my palm and extending it at the guard for inspection. The sigil immediately responds, glowing softly. My throat constricts when the guard leans closer, a frown creasing his forehead.
He knows, I think. But then, a moment later, he rolls the scroll back up and hands it over to us. “You may proceed.”
Seriously?I offer a weak smile as I tuck my shears back into my boot. He bought it. I can’t believe it. We stood before the guards, fed them a concoction of lies and,miraculously, passed ourselves off as competitors in the Reckoning.
As the watercraft glides beneath the arch and into the city of Rava, the guard bids us farewell with a parting wish.
“Good luck with the tournament,” he calls after us, his words echoing with amusement. “If you don’t win, at least try not to die!”
Chapter Ten
The watercraft glides smoothly along the serpentine canals of Rava. We pass along the outskirts of a buzzing marketplace, and it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen.
Colourful stalls weave through narrow alleyways, cobbled together from vibrant tarps and woven greenery. They’re overflowing with trinkets and exotic treasures, vendors clamouring for the attention of the passing crowd.
Celebratory red-and-gold garlands thread through most of the stalls, and matching banners overhead proudly declare the Reckoning’s motto.
Honour to the Triumstellar Accord. Blessed be the stars.
I breathe in the medley of scents that drift upon the air. Street food sizzling over open flames. Earthy spices and herbs. The faint sharpness of fresh dye, and beneath it a dampness reminiscent of wet wool. Freshly baked milk buns are perched on the windowsill of a nearby bakery,and I can’t help but salivate. Suddenly, the apple I had for breakfast feels like a long time ago.
As our watercraft heads deeper into Rava, the city reveals itself in layers. Quaint shops line the waterway banks, and colourful terraces clamber up the mountainside. Each tier of the city offers a more stunning view of the harbour below, where ships bob gently in the turquoise waters, their sails billowing.
