I shake my head and lie. “Not in a long time. Not since…”
“Yeah,” Aaron says, his tone softening. “I don’t pray much, either. Not since my mother left us.”
We fall into a companionable silence. As we near the end of the Avenue of Faith, I see the one temple I don’t despise.
Half-hidden by ivy and marble columns lies theSanctum of Maeva, goddess of harvest, healing, and home. Commoners still slip offerings of grain and milk through her barred gates. She’s the last refuge for unwed mothers—and for girls in need of being “atoned.”
“I spent most of that year between Maeva’s ward and Vareth’s temples,” I say, changing the subject. “The first was meant to teach me mercy. The second taught obedience.”
“And neither lesson stuck, after all that time?”
“You’re such a rake.”
“Guilty as charged,” he says, raising his hands in defeat.
Ahead, the capital bells shift tone, tolling out three notes, sharp and rising: the signal for the Selection.
The crowd surges like a wave, and Aaron steps back as the parade of crimson carriages rolls into the square.
“Good luck, Selene,” he calls over the din. “And may the gods favor your sister.”
I glance toward the temple one last time, its golden doors yawning wide. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whisper to myself.
I find Kat near the front, right beside the dais, eyes wide with wonder.
“It’s starting,” she breathes.
I nod, but my stomach twists. Kat’s breathless, her cheeks flushed and her hair askew in the wind. For a moment, she looks like the girl I used to run barefoot with through the fields, before politics and prophecy twisted our fates.
“Do you remember,” she whispers, “when we used to pretend we were dragon riders, fighting off bandits with sticks for swords?”
I smile faintly. “You always made me be the bandit.”
“Only because you were better at swordplay!” she protests.
The memory cracks something in my chest. I don’t want this to be our last moment together. Not like this. Not with smoke in the air and blood in the basin.
I hate this part—the way people dress it up and make it feel like a celebration of new life instead of what it really is: a ritual of death.
“We should get closer,” she says.
“This is close enough.”
She gives me a look, half disappointment, half worry, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns and threads through the throng, vanishing like a spark in the wind.
I linger at the edge of the crowd, half-shadowed by a tapestry booth. A child beside me clutches a carved dragon toy with its painted teeth bared. He laughs as he pretends to make it bite his sister. Their mother hushes them gently, smoothing the girl’s hair.
I turn away. My hands feel cold, my throat dry.
The Bloodmoon doesn’t care who it takes. And every year, twelve women in the crowd learn just how cruel the fire can be.
The square transforms into a stage of smoke and solemnity. Vendors pack away their wares, eyes wary despite the crescendoing music. Masked children toss crimson and white petals into the air, laughing, but even their joy feels thin, like incense masking decay. The aroma of cinnamon bread mingles with the acrid bite of incense, clashing in my throat.
This is how they dull the horror, with pageantry and pastries, fire and rose petals, like wrapping a dagger in silk. Some of the people whisper blessings under their breath. Others clutch talismans or family crests. It’s a celebration, yes—but only for those who aren’t in the ring.
Music echoes from the high balconies. Dancers in dragon masks toss red feathers like embers. I spot Kat spinning beneath them, radiant.
She is the sun. She always has been, from the moment she was born. I’ve spent years watching her stitch light into the broken corners of our lives. It was Kat who still believed in the inherent goodness of humanity, even during those early years when our father gave her every reason not to.
