It takes a second to register, and the room is quiet while I am forced against the side of Rholker’s throne. The music starts to sour, and the lights above us dim.
“Essstela,” Dahlia’s haunting voice hisses.
Everyone at the king’s table stiffens, and I feel her unseen eyes on me.
Arion looks at the women with alarm. “Who, exactly, are you? And why do you cover yourselves like assassins in the night?”
The five women that flank Dahlia turn toward the Elf King.
“We are the Sssix,” one says simply.
Strange that he doesn’t recognize them. Aren’t they elves?
Arion seems unimpressed. He turns back to Rholker.
“Do you make it a habit of inviting those who entirely conceal their features from the other guests? How can I be sure they aren’t sent straight from the trolls to kill us?”
The Six are silent, as is the king, but a giant completely oblivious to the tension walks by with three goblets of wine in two fists. His cheeks are ruddy, and he stumbles near the woman at the back of the flank. The two tumble over, and the black robe is yanked away.
She hisses and screeches, but wine splashes over her face, and whatever magic was keeping her concealed under the pitch-black fabric is revealed.
She’s no demon. No elf.
She’s ahuman.
I gasp. When the Enduares asked me about humans with magic, I told them about a legend among slaves: theBrujas.
They are real.
“A human?” Arion says, turning back to glare at Rholker. “Why are slaves attending the party the same as us?”
“We aren’t slaves,” Dahlia hisses, her voice low and strong.
She also yanks her hood off, revealing more elaborately painted greenish-black symbols over her pale skin. There’s a haunting allure to her gaze, but she appears unashamed. Her eyes are entirely black, as is the paint around the sockets.Straight black hair is braided into six sections tied at the back of her head with what looks like hollowed-out spinal bones.
The music stops entirely, and Aska has begun whispering furiously to Rholker.
Other elves are approaching, hands on their weapons, which causes several warriors to flock to us.
“What is the meaning of this?” another giant says as more and more draw near to see what’s happening.
I can see their fiery questions as they see Dahlia and wonder why six humans who don’t belong to the king can walk freely.
“Guards!” Rholker calls, clearly blanched.
His grip loosens just as Dahlia’s bewitching face flicks to me. Like a snake slithering into my consciousness, I hear a voice in my head.
Prepare to run, Daughter of the Light Weaver.
I blink, and then one of the giants grabs the woman attempting to stand.
“You look like a child smeared cow dung over your face. I’ll take you back to the pens. Maybe we’ll find a frozen river to dunk your ugly face into,” he laughs.
There is no warning before he goes straight as a plank, his eyes roll back into his head, and he falls over. Blood streams from his nose, mouth, and eyeballs.
Someone screams, and the giants move to grab the memory slicer.
It’s mere moments before total pandemonium breaks loose. Screams fill the air, and all music stops.
