“Be at peace, Aion,” Theron said, his voice a rough, sympathetic rumble. “She will be protected. That’s what matters.”
Theron was right, of course. I couldn’t let my own selfishness prevail over the truth. This bride market, no matter how fake, would keep Medea safe from Jason.
Down below, the central stage began to glow. The geometric runes pulsed along the floor, and Phix emerged from the gloom. Today, her fur seemed to shine even brighter than usual, and I hated her for that. For how unruffled she was.
The sphinx took her place at the high rostrum of carved bone, and her simple arrival smothered the murmurs of the crowd into total silence.
“Citizens of Asphodelia,” she roared. “Thanatos-blessed. We gather to bear witness tonight to a true gift. A death-touched bride unlike any other. A rarity has emerged from the mists of the Acheron.”
She gestured toward the side of the stage, her massive claws glinting in the torchlight. On cue, Medea appeared on the stage.
Standing next to the massive sphinx and surrounded by all the monsters of Asphodelia, Medea looked terrifyingly small. Her silver hair fell in a smooth curtain, and she faced the crowd without flinching. But she looked past them, past every single face in the crowd. She was looking for me.
I took a half-step toward the edge, driven by a desperate need to reach her. Theron grabbed my arm, keeping me from moving forward.
“Don’t, Aion,” Theron warned, his hold on me unyielding. “We agreed to the proxy. If you step out there, she loses her shield.”
I forced myself to stop. I was her sanctuary, yet the laws of the Moirae demanded I stand as a silent spectator. I had never felt the humiliation of my threadless existence so acutely.
“Behold Medea,” Phix said, her golden tail twitching slowly. “Do not be fooled by her mortal fragility. She carries a gift many of you have prayed for.”
Phix leaned forward over the rostrum, her dark, depthless eyes sweeping the packed tiers. “Her touch unweaves flesh. Everythread she encounters is instantly, irrevocably dissolved. Even we, the Thanatos-blessed, will find no safety in her embrace. To touch her is to be unmade.”
A heavy, absolute stillness fell over the agora. On the stage, Medea tensed.
She still thought like a hunted mortal, expecting the city to recoil from her touch as if it were a plague. But in Asphodelia, she was the type of bride who only appeared once a century.
The silence shattered into a roar of desperate, reverent hunger. It was the sound of stagnant immortals witnessing a miracle and craving the one release they were denied.
A nekroi rose from the front row, his parchment-colored skin trembling over brittle bones. He leaned forward, his eyes burning with fanatic zeal. “To feel the thread snap. To know the truth of the void without waiting for the Moirae’s shears.”
In the middle tiers, a massive cyclops placed a heavy hand over his chest. “We endure for centuries, stagnant and woven tight. Without the Weavers’ permission, we cannot dissolve. But this woman… she is the loophole.”
The elite of Asphodelia leaned over the stone railings, their energy signatures flaring in a chaotic riot of religious fervor and desire. They didn’t see a terrified, lonely woman standing on the obsidian. They saw a divine instrument. They saw a fast track to the sacred unweaving.
If any of them laid a hand on her skin, they would simply dissolve back into the ambient energy of the city. The Moirae were allowing this, which meant they were silently sanctioning whatever fate befell their children.
The nekroi hurled a heavy leather sack onto the stage. The glowing stones spilled across the black glass, reflecting in Medea’s wide eyes. “Ten thousand death crystals.”
The cyclops vaulted over a bench, throwing his heavy arms wide. “Fifteen thousand.”
From the upper tiers, one of Phonos’s sisters screeched, “Twenty thousand. I will give her the spoils of a hundred battlefields.”
I flinched. Alecto and Megaera were family through Daphne, and they knew the truth about the plan. Neither of them intended to have anything to do with Medea. Their simple participation gave the bidding war weight, through the authority of House Keres. But it still hurt to see.
The bidding war escalated, transforming the agora into a temple of desperate offerings. The air grew thick with the smell of scorched dust as the raw, accumulated energy of the bids hummed against the floorboards.
I watched Medea shrink into herself. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, overwhelmed by the crashing waves of devotion.
My fingers dug into the cold rock of the gallery railing. The stone fractured, fine webbed cracks spreading silently beneath my grip. The anger inside me burned hotter, an agonizing, unfamiliar fire. If not for Theron's steady grip, I would have possibly lost my mind.
“It is as I thought,” I whispered. “They don’t see her. They only see an executioner.”
“She is a blessing from Thanatos,” Theron corrected quietly, his amber eyes fixed on the stage. “They cannot understand she is meant for you, not for them. Let them shout. It’ll be over soon.”
He was right, but that changed nothing. Why were they allowed to shout, while I was forced to languish in silence? Why did they have the right to bid for a bride, while I did not?
Down below, the nekroi shook with the effort of his final offering. “Thirty-five thousand death crystals. My entire estate. My hoarded vaults. All for one touch of the unmaking.”
