Chapter 2 Amarissa
AMARISSA
The edges of the platform had been draped with too many direblight lilies, their perfume sickly sweet enough to rake down the back of my throat.
Father stood at the center, swathed in his elegant robes, a chalice full of untainted wine in one hand.
The crowd gathered around us while the condemned held their breath.
Elders moved among those who would soon die, their faces as solemn in their robes.
They dipped a ladle into the wine basin and filled cups, handing one each to trembling hand.
“On this Day of Mercy,” Father called out in a solemn voice, “we cleanse what madness would soon corrupt. We bless this blight-given burden with a sense of peace. We restore harmony to our families and our court.”
My mask hid the twitch of my jaw.
A girl near the front of the crowd began to cry, her fingers clutching her mother’s skirt.
My hands shook, and I had to press my fingers against my thighs to stop myself from leaping off the platform, from reaching out to her.
I’d tell her this wasn’t mercy, wasn’t right.
How many children had lost a parent to this ceremony?
How many a sibling or friend? Each loss carved another piece of my soul away until I feared there would be nothing left but the hollow shell of the mask I wore.
My magic stirred, and the wind changed, a gust coming out of nowhere, scattering lily petals from the platform and slapping hair across faces.
One of the condemned women, pregnant and with autumn hair, gasped. Her wine cup slipped from her hands, shattering on the stones by her feet.
Overhead, a cinderhawk shrieked. It circled once. Again.
The wind rose higher, whipping cloaks and skirts, creating confusion as guards called out commands, struggling to maintain order.
He stepped from the crowd, his cloak flaring out with the wind. The light hit his profile and slid off like oil.
“This isn’t justice,” he said, his tone calm yet cutting. “It’s theater soaked in blood.”
The crowd stiffened. A wave of tension rolled through them, like frost etching across glass. I felt it down to my bones.
Guards tightened their grips on their sheathed swords. One hint of an uproar, and they’d do what was needed to contain the crowd.
The man lifted his chin, defiance blazing in his eyes.
The cinderhawk dove low over the crowd, and they cried out and ducked when it shrieked again. It launched itself toward the clouds.
A guard standing beside me lunged toward the man.
I slid my foot into his path, as casual as a twitch. The guard stumbled and fell off the platform, hitting the ground hard, skidding across the gravel-covered cobblestones. Wine sloshed and a few of the condemned yelped.
I leaped off the platform, crying out. Drawing attention my way.
Another guard ran to help the fallen one. As I tangled my foot with his, time seemed to slow.
I knew what failure meant. Not just for the woman, but for me.
Father had executed entire families for less.
But in that moment between action and consequence, I felt more like myself than I had in years.
Fear and courage weren’t opposites. True courage was feeling the fear and acting anyway. Today, I chose courage.
The second guard stumbled into a servant carrying cups, and the tray went flying. The crash sent people scattering, and in the furor, I caught the pregnant woman’s eye and jerked my head toward the crowd’s edge.
She understood, slipping between two arguing elders and vanishing into the press of bodies. If she was wise, she’d gather her things and flee the town.
That was seven now. Seven I’d saved. Each rescue was a gamble with lives. Not just my own, but anyone connected to the escaped.
Still, if mercy meant saving even one, I wouldn’t stop. What was the point of my position if I didn’t use it to save even a few?
I scooped up the woman’s cup, keeping it low by my side. The taste of copper filled my mouth. I’d bitten my tongue.
Father’s eyes found mine across the platform, narrowing with suspicion. He wasn’t a fool. When I’d helped the man slip away during a similar uproar, he’d had the man’s family questioned. Three died in the dungeons before he was satisfied no conspiracy existed.
I’d learned then that every person I saved could condemn others unless I was exceedingly careful.
And now I’d painted another target on my back.
Forcing my breathing to steady, I crouched beside the guard, latching onto his arm to help him up. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what happened.”
By the time he’d regained his footing, the woman had vanished, and the man and the cinderhawk were gone too. People looked upward, some pointing at the clouds, a few asking what this could mean.
“Enough,” Father bellowed, his illusion of control cracking. “Guards, make sure no one enters or leaves until this ceremony is complete.”
Elders adjusted their robes. One went around, ensuring every one of the condemned had full cups.
The wind bit colder than before but no one appeared to notice the woman was missing.
The ceremony continued.
Some said magic was chaos made flesh. That if it wasn’t bled from our people, it would fester.
I used to think that was just another tale whispered by tired elders, until a young woman evaded detection and went mad.
She was twenty-six when she broke, exactly my age now.
The healers said she’d shown no signs of instability until the final day, when neighbors found her talking to herself and weeping over invisible corpses.
By sunset, her unleashed magic had burned through seven homes, leaving those who’d lived there stranded.
And that was why we still held the Day of Mercy.
At my father’s command, the first man stepped forward, holding his mug aloft. Old, his lined face appeared serene. I cringed but he drank without trembling, and an elder murmured a blessing as she collected his cup. The old man staggered. Tumbled to the ground. He did not rise again.
One of the women wept so hard she could barely hold onto her cup.
The third…
…was a boy, not more than twenty. Eyes like flint. He stared straight ahead and before I could do anything, he’d lifted and drank the wine like it was water on a hot day.
My throat burned, and my magic stirred, restless. Angry.
The cup slipped from his fingers, fell to the ground, and rolled to a stop. A trail of liquid slithered from its rim, swirling away from his fallen body.
I could not breathe.
One of the elders looked up at me, his face wreathed with concern. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted like rust.
The crowd cheered.
And I watched the last of the liquid from the man’s cup seep between the cobblestones.
Too many of my precious people tumbled to the ground.
Their arms lifted toward the sky, the elders chanted, blessing those condemned as they faced the fates.
My throat closed off. I could not breathe behind the mask. I lifted my hands to wrench it off. I’d throw it into the crowd and let loose. A spark of fire on a cold morning would be nothing compared to what I would do now.
“Their sacrifice ensures your children will grow up in a safe realm,” Father said. “Their spirits will rise brighter in the next life.”
Was that true? I’d tried to believe it, believe him when he said this was the only merciful way to ensure our people remained safe. But why hadn’t I gone mad yet? I’d felt the magic, the insidious, treacherous thing, since I was tiny. If madness was inevitable, why was I still me?
Madness was supposed to come gradually, then all at once.
Was this the beginning of my end? The magic and my conscience were both fighting to break free from years of containment.
Perhaps madness wasn’t what awaited those with magic.
Perhaps it was what happened when you denied your true nature for too long.
When I was five, I threw a tantrum in the garden because Mother wouldn’t give me sweets before dinner. Rosebushes withered around me, their petals browning and dropping as my screams peaked.
Mother caught my face, her own a stark mask of fear. “Amarissa. Stop! Do not do this. Never let them see, sweet one. Never. Especially your father. Promise me.”
I’d promised. And I was still promising, with every breath and every day.
I swallowed hard, pushing away my rising nausea.
A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, drizzling down my face behind the mask. I remained standing, perfectly composed, perfectly dutiful.
The realm’s Lady of Mercy, who could not offer enough to her own people.
When the ceremony was finished, the elders stopped chanting. The bodies were wrapped in blue cloth and carried away for the funeral pyre. The crowd’s silence gave way to a collective exhalation, the unspoken relief of those who’d witnessed death but been spared its touch themselves.
“And now,” Father called out, his voice full of strength and satisfaction, “we’ll honor those whose vigilance protects us all.”
I stiffened. This part was new, added in the years since Mother died. The Gratitude Ceremony, where those who reported magic users were publicly rewarded.
He gestured, and a line of people stepped forward, neighbors who’d reported those living among them, colleagues who’d exposed those they knew well. Even some who’d turned in their parent or sibling.
Like Mae’s mother, who’d reported her own grandchild.
Golden medallions were distributed, along with purses of coins.
“These brave souls have made the difficult choice to put the greater good above personal loyalty,” Father said as he moved among them, draping medals strung on bright ribbons around their necks. “They have ensured our children will grow in a world free from the taint of magic.”
Cheers rang out from the crowd.
A boy of about twelve shuffled at the end of the line, his sandy hair askew and a dusting of freckles across his nose. He stared at his feet, though his pride-filled gaze darted up periodically.