Chapter 26 Quinn
QUINN
Morning tasted of pine smoke and the last of Shubre’s honeycakes. Dew misted blankets, boots, and even Branrir’s eyebrows. Mav’s warmth at my back stayed the early chill as we rode. The trail widened into something less wild, more worn—scored by carts and royal patrols.
“Have you ever been to the capital?” I asked.
Mav sighed. “No. I haven’t had much of a reason. Unless you were assigned to the castle regiment, the knights stayed in Verdelune until we were called on assignment.”
I angled my head enough to catch him from the corner of my eye. “You will hate it.”
“That bad?”
“It is not bad,” I said after a beat. “It is…polished. Everyone pretending they are not pretending.”
A pause. “You’re right. I’ll probably hate it.”
The forest exhaled at last, releasing us into light. One moment: sun-dappled pines; the next, we were confronted by it.
Aurillion.
The capital rose as a monument. Pale stone walls climbed impossibly high.
Lions flanked the entrance, manes like flame, eyes of polished amethyst. Above them, pennants snapped—royal purple, the golden lion encircled by twin laurels.
The guards matched their city. A dozen stood at attention, gold armor polished to impractical brightness.
We slowed. Mav’s arms tightened around me. Thistle waited with Vesper draped about her shoulders like a living stole. Branrir rode a pace behind.
A guard stepped forward, visor lifted. “Papers.”
I withdrew the invitation from my pocket and handed it to the guard. Silver and indigo shifted beneath the vellum as he unfolded it. The guard leaned in; when his stare crossed the crest, a low hum rose and a light ran along the edges.
“Confirmed,” he said, stepping aside. “You may enter.”
With a flick of his hand, the portcullis shuddered to life. Gears growled as the massive gate began to rise, chains screaming against their pulleys.
On the other side, the world refined itself by another measure.
Pale cobbles wove between buildings with high windows and ivy-draped balconies.
Markets spilled bright into streets; bridges curved over narrow canals.
People flowed in silk and velvet. The air smelled of roses, spices, and fresh-baked bread.
At the heart of the city, the castle stood, ambition incarnate—white buttresses, gold-inlaid domes, towers piercing the sky. From the tallest spire, a violet banner the size of a sail unfurled. At the base of the main stairs, an opal lion the size of a horse roared into eternity.
Breath left me.
As did comfort.
I had walked the castle halls, slept in those rooms, but all of that was before I was placed under the spell.
Mav’s voice brushed my ear. “Was that the kind of welcome you were expecting?”
“No,” I said truthfully. “It is far louder than I remember.”
Preparations were well underway for the Spring Jubilee.
Along the castle promenade, Hedges tended to rows of topiaries, coaxing them into spirals.
Tremors knelt to smooth the paths, palms pressed to the cobblestones as the earth settled beneath in seamless lines.
Tempests cleared the clouds to a perfect blue and sent a soft breeze to dance through the banners.
Everywhere I looked, sleeves bore bands of color—blue for Tempests, brown for Tremors, green for Hedges—each stitched with a corresponding sigil: a cloud, a mountain, a leaf. Even from a distance, their gifts were made known.
Perhaps the identifiers were meant for order, yet as I watched, a chill sank low in my stomach. The display felt less like a celebration of magical ability and more like a classification—each person, neatly marked.
No one spoke, but I felt the others’ silence as keenly as my own. We shared a quiet understanding that, among all this color and ceremony, mine was the one magic that could never be worn in daylight.
“I don’t think they’ll make the Jubilee guests wear them,” Mav said after a moment. “The court’s too vain to let an armband ruin the cut of their formalwear.”
I attempted a weak grin. “A mercy, then.”
“What color do you think Twi—” He caught himself. “Yours would be?”
I lifted one shoulder in a hesitant shrug, although I was appreciative of his attempt to distract me with such a ludicrous question. Before I could form an answer, Vesper, draped indolently across Thistle’s shoulders, yawned wide enough to show every sharp tooth.
“How about gray?” the cat drawled. “To match the tombstone she’ll need if any of these bastards find out what she is.”
“Vesper!” Thistle chided.
But the absurdity of it—of my own demise being discussed as a fashion choice—drew an unexpected laugh from my throat.
He reached for my hand. His fingers brushed mine—hesitant at first, as though granting me time to pull away.
I did not, nor did I wish to. Our hands fit together easily, as if the Saints themselves had sculpted them to align.
For a breath, the noise of the city fell away; only the warmth of his hand remained.
We had not taken five paces past the lion statue before Thistle halted, looked the group over, and announced, “None of us can go to the Spring Jubilee looking like this.”
I glanced down at my boots, the torn hem of my dress, and the cloak still damp with morning dew. A woman in cobalt silk drifted by like a swan, sleeves star-dusted. “…Fair.”
Vesper scoffed. “Speak for yourselves. I look incredible, as always.”
“Let’s fix it,” she said, tipping her chin toward painted awnings and wrought signs.
The dressmaker’s shop hid between a perfumery and a bookseller.
Branrir and Mav waited outside on a bench while Thistle, Vesper, and I ventured forth.
Inside, it resembled a jewelry box after a pleasant explosion.
Velvet chaises graced the shop corners; tall mirrors glowed beneath sconces shaped like lion paws.
Masks blinked from glass cases, featuring beads, feathers, and gems. Mannequins turned on enchanted pedestals, showcasing gowns of exquisite detail.
One dress bore clouds charmed into continuous motion; another was spun from iridescent lace, covered in pearls.
“Oh, I am going to cause problems,” Vesper purred as he vanished beneath a rack of feather boas.
“Mine,” Thistle said, pointing at a dressform draped in indigo and emerald.
A clerk wearing all black approached with a smile far too curated to be genuine. “May I assist you?”
As he turned, the light caught his cheek—a darkened scar in the shape of a single letter. U.
For a moment, I could not comprehend what I was seeing. Then the shape resolved itself in my mind, too deliberate to be accidental, too cruel to be self-inflicted.
Breath snagged painfully in my throat.
A brand.
I startled backward. My elbow caught the edge of a display, sending a tower of jeweled combs clattering to the floor. Vesper darted out from beneath his feathered hideaway at the clatter.
“Are you all right, madame?” the clerk asked, brows drawn.
“Yes-yes, my apologies.” I stooped at once, gathering the combs with shaking fingers.
Thistle rested a steadying hand on my arm and turned to the clerk. “Do you have anything in pink?”
He hesitated, then gave a sharp dip of his head. “I shall check the storeroom.”
When the door closed behind him, Thistle’s voice came softly. “Is it your first time seeing the mark of the ungifted?”
The branded flesh haunted my vision, a symbol that burned all the more for its permanence. Its brutality far exceeded the armbands. An unthinkable act of searing what Avandria deemed as failure into living skin.
I nodded, words trapped beneath my horror.
Thistle sighed, tracing a finger along a bolt of crimson fabric.
“Around the same time as the king made the rest of the capital citizens wear classifying colors, he offered those without magic a choice. Back in the year of our Saints 1252, they were all to be exiled east, to the colony of the ungifted. But as the years passed and the kingdom’s population dwindled, the decree softened.
The king allowed the ungifted to choose to leave or stay in society under strict conditions. ”
“What conditions could be stricter than a brand?” My voice was quiet, laced with indignation.
Thistle winced. “I’ve always found the practice barbaric. Those who stay in Avandria may work in trades, but they’re taxed nearly twice what everyone else is, and their wages are meager at best. The mark makes sure no one forgets what they aren’t.”
I looked toward the storeroom door, shame and anger warring in my chest. The clerk’s carefully practiced smile replayed in my mind—an act of grace from someone denied the right to dignity.
Hot tears pinched at the corners of my eyes. It was one thing to be hunted for what I was, but another entirely to be condemned for what one was not. The thought of a life measured and limited by the absence of magic carved an aching wound within me.
My eyes shifted to the ink on Thistle’s face. Laugh-lines creased her dark skin, further emphasized by the symbols inked across it—the flower between her brows, a line over the bridge of her nose, dots beneath each eye, and a bold stroke running from her lower lip to her chin.
Voice trembling for fear of the answer, I asked, “Were you compelled to receive those markings?”
Thistle’s grin was quick and fond. “No, dear. I chose these for myself.”
Breath rushed from my lungs in relief. “Forgive my impetuousness, I have not seen such marks before.”
“Few have, these days. The younger Hedges prefer the armbands to ink. But long before the council of five brothers conquered these lands, we marked ourselves this way. It was once believed the earth would not heed an unmarked hand.”
Her fingers brushed the symbol between her brows. “Each line speaks to the soil and the seasons—who I am, what I ask of it. Old magic, older pride.” She chuckled. “And, if I am honest, it keeps the young ones from thinking I’m to be trifled with.”