Seraphina steps forward and leans in to inspect a sword mounted above the hearth, her voice smooth and far too casual. “Is that obsidian from the Wailing Peaks?” she asks.
Arther raises a brow as if impressed. “It is.”
So, she’s not just pretty. She knows her weapons and, undoubtedly, how to use them. Unlike me.
From the shadow of the doorway, Arther’s gaze flicks briefly to Seraphina, assessing, calculating. Elena hovers nearby, her eyes darting to a longbow on the wall before flicking nervously back toward the hall. Her shoulders are tense, her lips pressed thin.
Vivian and Cassy move together, eyeing the wall of weapons. I follow a few paces behind, unease rising in my chest.
I pause by a rack of twin daggers. The handles are carved from pale bone, the blades etched with faint runes that shimmer faintly when my fingers graze their metal. They seem to hum, low and alive.
When I was ten, a trader from Grathmoor came to the ranch and stayed a few days, a burly man with a kind smile and haunted eyes that reflected a hard life. When he noticed my Pegasus dagger, he offered to give me a few lessons on throwing it in exchange for teaching him how to hobble his horse.
As Arther’s eyes trace our movements, Mae joins him, the hem of her gown whispering over the stone.
“The keep chooses,” she murmurs. For a moment, her soft gaze meets mine. Then she turns back to Arther. There’s an ease between them that speaks of long familiarity, perhaps even a loyalty that runs deeper than duty.
Lunch is served on a grassy terrace overlooking the kingdom. The view is almost painfully beautiful, now that the usual veil of fog around the keep has lifted to reveal rolling green hills that fade into silver-dusted forests. Beyond them, a shimmering lake glints beneath the afternoon sun like shattered glass.
“I still can’t believe this is real,” Cassy whispers, holding a piece of bread like it might vanish at any moment.
Vivian snorts. “Believe it. We’re prisoners. We’ll probably die here.”
Cassy’s face crumples.
“Hey,” I say gently. “We’re not going to die. We have each other. We’ll find a way to survive this.”
Cassy gives me a watery smile.
Mariel leans closer. “We’ll look out for each other. That’s how we’ll make it through. Together.”
I nod, but inside, doubt gnaws at me. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re walking through a dream meant to distract us from a noose that tightens with every step.
We fall into a quiet rhythm as we eat. The warm sun and soft breeze almost make me forget where we are.
Then, in a voice as delicate as the wind, Cassy asks, “Do you have any siblings?”
The question lands soft but cuts deep. “I do,” I say. “A sister. She’s the reason I’m here,” I add.
Mariel glances up. Across the terrace, Seraphina and Elena pause mid-whisper. Even Vivian, seated a little farther off, stills.
I sigh. “In Solmere, there’s an old law. If someone earns the favor of the gods—or the Council—they can invoke the right of substitution. I won the Rite of Flame. A horse race, of all things.”My smile is bitter; the memory holds no pride, only desperation. “It gave me the legal right to take her place.”
Cassy’s eyes widen, round and soft. “You chose to come? To save your sister?”
“Yes. She didn’t understand that being chosen was death. But I couldn’t bear to stand by and watch her die.”
A hush falls over us, heavy with things unsaid.
“I know what it’s like,” Cassy whispers. “To be separated from someone you love.” Her small hands are clenched tight in her lap. “I have a twin back home. I have eleven brothers and sisters altogether. My parents offered both of us during the last drought. But the priestesses only took me.”
My chest tightens.
“They gave them ten silver coins,” she says, “enough to feed everyone for a while. Our six older brothers work the fields and the mines. Our three younger sisters are still too little to offer up.” Her voice trembles. “I didn’t cry when they took me. But my sister did. I can still hear her screaming.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
We sit like that for a while, sun-washed and silent.
