15. The Hunter is Coming
15
THE HUNTER IS COMING
WREN
T he Hunter is coming for me. His green eyes follow me in my sleep, watching me. Calling me. Taunting me.
His warning follows me, even now.
Run, little bird.
His voice echoes through my never-ending nightmares. Even in sleep, I’m not safe. I’ll never be safe again.
I wake with a sense of unease coating me like a second skin. My mind feels too far from my body, a discombobulated sensation that gets worse as I try to wiggle my fingers. They’re stiff around Father’s knife, and I keep my eyes closed while I carefully peel my fingers away from the hilt. It’s a suns-damned miracle that I didn’t cut myself in my sleep.
Breathing in deeply, I try to settle my racing heart. I’m here, I’m alive, and most importantly, I’m still free. Even though he chased me in my nightmares, the Hunter hasn’t caught me yet. If I have anything to say about it, he will never catch me. I’ll make it to the Sapphire Coast and leave this gods-damned country and the Hunters behind for good.
Maybe one day, I’ll even laugh about the ridiculousness of this entire situation. Wouldn’t that be something? Laughing about this nightmare? I can barely smile, let alone laugh.
But someone…
Someone is laughing.
The joyous sound fills the air, discordant against the unease brought on by my nightmares. I shudder. Who in their right mind has cause to be happy? Certainly not me.
Despite my earlier thoughts, I’m not sure I’ll ever laugh again.
I sit up, pulling open my eyes. The darkness is gone, and somehow, I slept the entire night. Green leaves are inches from my face, and an ant is crawling up my arm. I shake it off and roll out from under the bush. My back aches, reminding me that sleeping on the ground was yet another poor decision.
I rotate my stiff shoulders, and a burst of pain runs through me. Because, of course, everything hurts. At this point, I should just expect things to turn out badly. At least then, I won’t be surprised when they don’t go my way.
A baritone chuckle fills the air, breaking me free of my pity party. My head turns towards it, and I frown. That sounds nearly identical to James’s laugh. But it can’t belong to him—he’s at home, far away from me.
My heart twists, and my homesickness returns tenfold. Even though my family followed the rules for the Given and kept me at arm’s length during my teenage years, I still love them. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.
Even though I need to get going, I pull open my bag and fish out the necklace my parents gave me. The two suns dangle on the dainty gold chain, and I trace them before clasping the jewelry around my neck. The necklace imbues me with a sense of strength, as though my family is here, encouraging me forward.
Now, I feel ready for the day. I gather my things—a quick affair, since I have very few possessions to my name—and rise to my feet. The suns are bright despite having barely risen, and the sky is blue once again. I scowl, glaring at the cloudless heavens.
What is it with these beautiful days? I hate them.
From now on, gloomy, cloudy days are my favorites. The darker, the better. Fog? Bring it on. Clouds? Perfect. Thunderstorms? Fabulous. Snow falling in blinding sheets, making it impossible to see anything? Fantastic.
They’ll more adequately reflect my mood.
Leaves and twigs tangled themselves in the curls that escaped my hood while I slept, and I pick them out, discarding them on the ground. Once that’s done, I secure my hood and cloak once more before taking care of my personal needs behind a tree. I wash my hands in the nearby stream and dry them on my dress before getting a drink. I’m replacing the lid on my canteen when the wind carries faint streams of joyous music to my ears.
First, laughter. Now, this. What in the name of all the gods is happening? I’m not sure, but I don’t plan on sticking around to find out. Now that I’ve slept, my desire to find a map and get out of this city is stronger than ever.
Last night, the garden resembled a lush forest. In the daylight, it seems more like a beautiful utopia pulled straight from the storybooks Mother used to read the twins when they were younger.
I don’t recognize most of the plants, but a grin spreads across my face when I catch sight of a moonberry bush sitting atop a small hill.
The gods may have forsaken me, but at least the suns are still watching out for me. Their rays light my path as I make my way to the bush. The berries are red and inviting. My stomach lets out a thunderous grumble at the sight.
I pick a moonberry, testing it between my fingers. It’s darker than the ones I found in the forest, but it feels ripe. When I pop it into my mouth, a burst of tart, sweet flavor hits my tongue.
It reminds me of home, and for a moment, a wave of longing so strong I can barely stand washes over me. Memories cycle through my mind. Picking berries with Amelia. Making jam with Mother. Eating bowls of berries and cream with my siblings until our stomachs hurt.
Crouching in front of the bush, my fingers roam over the leaves. I toss countless berries into my mouth, focusing on sating the hunger that has been present since I left Alba’s.
“Hey,” a male voice comes from behind me. “What are you doing?”
I swallow a scream along with my latest berry, which lodges itself in my throat. I half-cough, half-sputter, slapping my hand over my mouth. Fear is a sheet of pure ice coursing through my veins as I stare at the moonberry bush, my limbs unable to move.
He found me.
Suns, why did I think that stopping in the garden to sleep was a good idea? I should’ve kept going, even though I was tired. Anything to keep some distance between me and Gabriel.
The Hunter is here. My breath comes in short bursts as I gather the strength to fight back. I won’t go willingly. Not now, not ever. Breaking free of my fear, my fingers find the hilt of Father’s knife.
I turn around, a snarl rising in my throat. “I’m not going to go—Oh.”
The man in front of me isn’t Gabriel.
My legs threaten to buckle as relief courses through me. It’s short-lived, however. Just because my Hunter hasn’t found me doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. I’m still Marked and on the run.
This man could be just as much of a danger to me as Gabriel.
Tugging my hood further down my forehead in what I hope is an inconspicuous manner, I look over the stranger.
He appears to be a year or two younger than me, but that might just be because he’s clean-shaven. He’s wearing a black tunic and brown trousers similar to the ones James favors. His brown eyes sparkle with life, his black curly hair is unkempt, and on his tawny neck…
I gasp, unable to help myself.
“You’re gods-blessed?” The question slips from my lips before I can stop it.
What are the chances that I stumbled across another Marked One in the garden? Wait. Is he on the run, too? His Mark is orange, and it isn’t glowing, but maybe he’s already learned the truth of what happens in the temples.
Maybe he just wants to get a head start on running for his life. Maybe the gods have shown me favor after all.
For a moment, I feel bad about cursing Esyn yesterday. Could she have sent me this Given as an apology?
Excitement bubbles up within me. We can escape together, this gods-blessed and I. It would make surviving so much easier. We could take shifts sleeping. That way, the Hunters will never catch us unaware. I wonder?—
A chuckle interrupts my thoughts. “Just for today.”
The strangeness of his words has me jerking my head up. “What?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Has he lost his mind? A Given… for today? That’s not possible.
The gods-blessed are born Marked, fated to our positions. No one can be a Given for a day. But he sounds so sure.
My eyes widen further as his fingers find the whorl on his neck, and he lifts it off.
“What the fuck?” I breathe.
He smirks at me, as if he knows this discovery is boggling my mind. Turning it around, he shows me a strange white adhesive on the back. With a smile, he puts the Mark back on his skin, patting it.
And it stays there.
My mind whirls as I try to comprehend what I’m seeing. He’s Marked, but the symbol of the gods’ blessing came off. It just… came off.
I don’t…
He…
What?
My thoughts feel sluggish as I stare at his neck. Before I can ask more questions—like how the fuck is this possible and what the hell is going on—he grabs a handful of moonberries from the bush and strolls down the path towards the entrance. A young man emerges from another path and bumps his shoulder. The two of them laugh, making their way to the street.
So casual. So relaxed.
So wrong .
I don’t understand. My very first memory is staring into a grimy mirror, studying the blue swirl etched prominently on my forehead. I’ve memorized the way it looks and feels.
In all my years, my Mark has never shifted, never moved, never done anything at all except start glowing when I turned twenty on the first day of winter last year. Sure, now it burns when I’m emotional, but that’s nothing compared to what he just did.
He lifted his Mark.
I stumble back, my fingers instinctively rising to my brow. No matter how I scratch at my Mark, it doesn’t come off or move or even budge.
Confusion is a swirling pit in me. The berries sour my stomach. I slap my hand over my mouth, swallowing the scream threatening to crawl out of me.
Every single time I think things have gotten as bad as they could possibly get, every single time I think I know what’s going on, everything changes. I stare at the empty path for so long, my eyes cross. Only then do I pull my hand from my mouth and start moving again. I need to get out of this gods-damned city.
My footfalls echo in my head, growing louder and louder until they’re drums in my ears.
He pulled off his Mark .
I’m so busy mentally dissecting the stranger’s movements that I don’t watch where I’m going as I head down the path. It isn’t until I reach the iron gates leading to the road that I realize the booming drums aren’t in my head.
By then, it’s too late to hide.
The gate is wide open, just like last night, but the cobblestone street is no longer empty. My heart lurches, and instinctively, I yank my hood further over my head as I take in the scene unfolding before me. Yesterday, the city seemed busy, but today, it’s brimming with people.
Heavy crowds line both sides of the street. Children hang off their mother’s skirts and their father’s legs. Teenagers stand in groups, chatting loudly. The elderly are also present—some lean on canes, while others rest in rolling chairs. Vendors stroll down the sidewalks carrying large wooden trays of food and drinks, selling their wares to the assembled hoard.
Everyone seems to be waiting for something, glancing to the left every few seconds. Even though people are crammed onto the sides of the roads, no one is walking in the middle of the street.
The reason for that becomes clear a moment later.
Drumbeats so loud I can barely hear myself think come from the left, announcing the arrival of six drummers. They wear matching uniforms. Sky-blue tunics, black pants, and leather boots that rise to their knees. Black gloves cover their hands. Round drums are strapped to their chests, and each drummer is gripping two mallets, one in each hand. They pound their instruments in perfect synchrony.
Boom
Boom
Boom
The drums are loud, but what comes after them has me pressing my back against the garden’s stone wall.
Dozens of female dancers flood the streets, moving their bodies in time with the drumbeat. Their beautiful garments reflect the rainbow, utterly unlike the heavy dresses the women in Grenbloom wear. The fabric barely covers their bodies, accentuating their feminine forms in a way I never knew was possible.
A gorgeous woman with beautiful umber skin dances by me. Shimmering pink fabric is banded around her breasts, matching her flowing slitted skirt and the slippers on her feet. Another dancer with tan skin and silver hair is wearing a similar outfit, but hers is a purple so dark, it’s almost black. A third performer with a short cut of bright blue hair and whose flesh is as pale as snow is wearing a teal halter dress that’s tight to the waist before it flows out from there.
Every single dancer is jaw-droppingly beautiful, but it’s not their outward appearance that has me gasping.
Each of them bears a Mark of the gods. Some have them above their breasts. Others, on their necks or upper arms. A few have them on their exposed stomachs. And three of them are Marked on their foreheads.
Just. Like. Me.
I’ve never seen so many gods-blessed in one place before, let alone Markings that look like mine. There’s something incredibly beautiful about being in the same space as others who are the same as me. Before I know it, pressure is building behind my eyes.
Damn it. This keeps happening to me at the worst moments. I can’t cry right now. I blink away the tears, refusing to pull my gaze away from the performers.
I am not alone .
The thought steals my breath, even though in my heart of hearts, I know this isn’t real. It can’t be. Though the dancers are Marked, none of their Marks are glowing. That wouldn’t be a problem for the younger dancers who appear to be in their early teens, but some of these performers look like they’re in their third decade of life.
Everyone knows the gods-blessed are Given the year they turn twenty. It happens without fail.
These dancers are fakes, just like the boy from earlier. Knowing that they aren’t truly gods-blessed doesn’t seem to matter, though. A fracture I didn’t even know existed deep in my soul heals at the sight of them.
I’ve been so alone since Amelia’s Giving, but it’s not like my loneliness started there. I’ve been different from the moment of my birth, standing out even from other Marked Ones. The blue swirl on my forehead prohibited me from pretending I was like everyone else, even for a moment.
“Look at Wren’s Mark,” Gavin, one of the village boys, sneers in the schoolyard. He points at my forehead, and a cluster of children laugh behind him. He’s a year older than my ten, and he’s been a bully for as long as I can remember. “It’s so ugly.”
I lift my hands to my face, trying to cover the blue swirl that’s always been there. “I can’t get rid of it.”
There’s no hiding the desperation in my voice or the tear that slides down my cheek. Why does Gavin always have to do this? It feels like every week, he has some new way to tease me.
One would think I’d be okay with it by now—it’s been happening for years—but it never gets any easier. James and Markus aren’t here today—they’re hunting with Father—so the bullies decided I was easy prey.
It isn’t fair. I want to be like the other kids, but I can’t change who I am.
“No one is ever going to want to marry you, Wren,” Soral, Gavin’s second in command, interjects cruelly. “Not when you look like that.”
I try to steel my heart against his cruel words, but they still sting.
“Marry her?” Gavin shoves his friend. “No one wants her at all.”
“That’s not true,” I tell them, lifting my hands away from my face. “I know it isn’t.”
The gods want me. That’s why I’m Marked. Right?
Gavin and Soral elbow each other and laugh, the other children quickly following suit. Their mean words continue. I ball my fists, glaring at them, but no one makes an effort to leave.
A shout comes from behind me.
“Shut up, Soral.” Amelia runs up next to me. Her blonde braids fly behind her, showing off the pink Mark on her neck. “You’re a pig and a bully.”
“And you’re a Given,” Gavin jeers, sticking out his tongue in her direction.
“Yes, we are.” Amelia squares her shoulders and glares at the bullies. Her pinky finger brushes mine.
It’s a small touch, but her meaning is clear: The Given stick together .
I needed that today. The problem is, as much as I want to believe that Gavin and Soral are wrong, there’s a part of me that yearns for the normalcy the other children have. Why can’t I be like them, just for one day? Even Amelia can hide her Mark. Not me.
Mistress Fyona rings the bell, and with another set of cruel words, the bullies head inside.
Amelia puts her hand on mine, and I look over at her.
“You know they’re wrong, don’t you, Birdie?” Her smile is bright. “They’re just jealous of how special you are.”
Amelia was a good friend that day, but the bullies were right. We were different. As much as having Amelia around helped, nothing could change the fact that we were two girls set apart from birth. Fated for the gods.
Cursed from the moment we were formed in our mothers’ wombs.
But this…
The dancers are beautiful, and my heart sings at being in the presence of so many gods-blessed in one place. There must be over a hundred performers, all moving in beautiful synchrony.
The sight is mesmerizing, and slowly, I move away from the stone wall. No one seems to notice me drifting towards the street. Laughter and conversation rise, but I don’t pay attention to their words.
The dancers are entrancing, and a growing stream of people follow behind them. Captivated by the Marked women, I follow them.
The procession continues through the streets of Mora. More and more people melt out of the crowd, joining the parade. Most of them are Marked, too. Some of their Marks are obviously fake and peeling off, but others are so real that they make me do a double-take.
What’s going on?
Eventually, I can’t bear not knowing what’s happening. I turn to the older woman on my right. A rosy Mark rests behind her ear, partially covered by her greying hair. She’s swaying her hips, humming under her breath.
I touch her arm, the current of the crowd pulling us along with it.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I say, keeping stride with her. I have to shout to have my voice heard over the drums.
She glances at me, her lips tugging up into a smile. Kindness shimmers in her blue eyes, and I’m glad I picked her to ask my question. “Yes, child?”
“What’s going on?” I gesture to the group all around us.
The parade has grown, the crowds on either side of the street are even larger, and the air is practically vibrating with excitement. Everyone else seems to know what this is about, and I feel left out, just like when I was a child.
The woman’s eyes widen, and she looks at me with shock. “Why, don’t you know? It’s the Giving Festival!”
The what ?
Ice floods my veins. The sense of peace that had been settling in my soul disappears. The music is replaced by a roaring in my ears, and my feet refuse to move. I become a statue. People shout as they avoid me, but their words don’t register.
I knew darkness existed in Myreth, even before I learned the truth of the Giving Ceremonies. King Andreas is renowned for his quick temper, iron fist, and penchant for blood. I’ve heard it said that in Rosebridge, the capital city, public executions happen on a weekly basis.
And yet, this seems worse than that.
My limbs turn to lead, and any joy I’d previously felt vanishes into thin air. My head pounds and each breath feels like I’m inhaling poison.
The Giving Festival .
Somehow, my feet manage to remember how to move long enough to get me off the road before I get crushed. Wouldn’t that be an ironic turn of events?
The parade continues by me as my vision blurs, and my heartbeat is erratic at best. Oh, gods. I was wrong earlier when I said that the Mother might have changed her mind about me. So, so wrong.
The Marks, the drums, the dancers, the vendors, the laughter and music…
My shoulder slams into the side of a building, and I double over, gasping for breath. Amelia’s scream and the priestesses’ laughter run through my mind, a continuous cycle that has me clutching my hood and wishing I was anywhere else.
The citizens of Mora aren’t celebrating something joyful. The dancers aren’t simply showing off their skills.
They’re all unknowingly celebrating death.
My death.