My head swung toward the source of that tenor. Long silver hair poured down his shoulders, stringy and wafting of cinders. His essence struck quickly. Humble aura, recently depleted in some fashion, yet resilient. Someone who reboundeddespite his misfortunes, who knew a hard day’s labor, with the calloused hands of an ethical tradesman. An honest worker.
By “lost,” I deliberated his meaning. “When loss touches you once, it remains forever.”
“It does,” the man agreed while balancing a pint, soot clogging his fingernails like black crescents. “And yet we move on.”
I watched him amble off toward an oval dirt track abutting a small hill, which rose far from the dance circle. Although the man had been mumbling more to himself than anyone else, the comment stuck like sap.
At the same time, a group in my periphery regarded the figure in question. One person hollered to another over the din, “Smith Gaius has been working himself to the bone.”
“It ain’t right, what happened to the forge’s stock.”
“Still, he’s managed. Tonight will be a fine fuck-you to the thieves.”
I listened while contemplating the rails lining the track, as well as the man’s outline ducking into a nearby pavilion. It brought to mind a detail I’d forgotten about Reaper’s Fest. I would have lingered on this longer, but another spectacle drew my notice.
Amid the frolicking bodies, Nicu floundered. He staggered in place, locating Lyrik and his consort beneath a tree, their mouths locked in a fervent kiss.
Grimacing, I swerved to find my friend’s tremulous eyes bearing witness to the scene. As far as I knew, not once had Lyrik made an advance toward Nicu. Yet their relationship held untold meaning for my friend, and so I straightened, prepared to go to him. Either that, or I would cleave that philandering cocksucker in half and be executed for murder.
But then…
In the bonfire’s hot glare, Nicu’s wilting features transformed from apocalyptic, to disillusioned, to steely. The stunning metamorphosis caused Nicu to stand taller. With unflappable resilience, he wheeled away to integrate himself with another rambunctious group, the face paint concealing his Royal pedigree, should the rare soul suspect him.
Privy to the scene, Aspen beamed as Nicu found a new diversion. She hesitated, then crossed over to me and peeked over the rim of my ale. Wordlessly, I handed it to her, overwhelmed as she sucked down the drink and wiped that duplicitous mouth with her arm.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Aire—”
My head snapped from her lips to those beguiling pupils. “I told you. Do not say my name.”
She winced. “Okay, more than fair. But it’s a special night for Nicu. Stay mad at me all you want, hate me as much as I hate myself, but at least make an effort to enjoy yourself for his sake.”
“And do not presume to lecture me on how to behave in his company.”
“Then join the revels! Or are you going to stand guard all night?”
My growl thinned. “One of us has to protect him.”
Aspen reeled back as if I’d slapped her. “You son of a bitch. I’m guilty of a lot of things, but I’d never hurt that boy!”
“Yet you’d manipulate everyone else!” I gritted. “You would dishonor their trust! You would break me in half!”
We shouted at one another, the music blaring over our screams. My throat stung, the words as brittle as flint. Aspen’s pupils glistened. Then she made the mistake of reaching out to touch me.
I jerked back, a hiss skating across my tongue. “I cannot take my eyes off you. Even now, I cannot. For fuck’s sake, why?Why do I subject myself, even when it’s a torment to look at you? Why?”
Aspen shook her head. “I ask myself that question a lot too.”
A horn resounded. The music faded as the crowd turned in waves toward the modest dais and pavilion. A line of cottagers stood on the platform, along with the man from earlier, their arrival drawing cheers.
“Neighbors and friends of Autumn! Welcome to Reaper’s Fest!” a woman with dark skin called out. “Our valiant contenders have stepped forward. For the souls who’ve yet to make their choice, this is your final call.” After cycling her arm once, she pointed at the attendees. “Who among this festive gathering is feeling brave tonight? By will of the Seasons and our beloved Crown, which of you dares to enter the track?”
The commotion amplified. Thatchers, builders, and farmers hooted as the man I’d conversed with stepped forward. In his hands, he balanced a wooden slab.
“Tonight’s prize,” the woman boomed. “A custom shield donated by Smith Gaius, forged in defiance of the wretched thieves who pilfered from his stock. With the grace of Autumn, may our setbacks always become our strengths!”
My flesh chilled. The shield’s face had been engraved with a detail my tapered eyes failed to identify.
But Aspen’s didn’t. Her gaze narrowed on the weapon, then blanched to a sickly pallor.
