Chapter 3 #2
He knew it was ridiculous that he was still calling on Magnus to shield him at his age—to speak when words fled him, to draw notice, to laugh at jokes he didn’t understand and be the perfect diplomat.
Yet, he still bloody did it.
Magnus lifted his nose, sniffing like the beast he was. “Weeping stars, do you smell that?”
Brand was hit a second later by the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meats as they reached the final curve and began their descent into the Main Square.
The amount of work that had been finished since this afternoon was staggering.
The flagstones practically sparkled, no trace of the sawdust that had filled every crack and corner.
Shops and homes gleamed, flowers and boughs hanging from doors and awnings, windows and balcony railings.
Pebbles and rocks shone from the places they’d been tucked, tiny pinpricks of glittering light amongst the greenery.
The pavilion had been fully assembled on the far side of the square, its top stabbing upwards with colorful peaks, the silk ribbons at each post dancing in the wind.
Steam rose from the abundant food within, held on platters and towers strewn across massive wooden tables that had only been half-built mere hours ago.
But the center of attention was the Solyr Stone.
As he did every time he saw it, Brand stopped dead in his tracks, something about the marbled obelisk calling out and demanding his awe and respect.
Behind a decorative arch, it rose from the platform he’d been helping to build, clawing for the Unknown. Taller than any building, higher than the trees, wider than four Demons in their rage could wrap their arms around.
And the main reason they were here, gathering with bated breath, anticipation building with every passing hour. The mating ritual was a happy coincidence.
A group of Demons walked by and called out to him, snapping him out of his trance. He waved, offering a small smile even as his heart skipped a beat.
“You know,” Mag said, his eyes following a straggling pair of females. “I think you might be the most ungrateful wee shite I ever met in my life.”
Brand huffed. “Your observation is noted. I’ll try to remember it the next time I’m crawling out of my skin.”
“Poor Brand—stuck with braw and bonnie warriors, forced to drink ale and dance until sunrise for weeks on end.”
“I don’t know why you’re complaining. I invited you here to do all of those things in my place, remember?”
“Aye, I know.” Magnus ran a hand over his hair and sighed. “Never mind. You’ll figure it out, hopefully before another fifty years go by. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, walking backwards and offering a mocking bow, “my stomach is eating itself and Pet is howling for sustenance.”
“The food is for after the ritual!” Brand shouted after him, shaking his head when Mag ignored him in favor of barreling through the growing crowd blocking his way to the feast.
With a deep breath, he stole a glance back the way they’d come, his mind everywhere and nowhere all at once.
His eyes skipped past the tangle of streets and buildings, up beyond the walls and towers of the castle, finally settling on the Sacred Sisters.
Named for the Celestial goddesses that had formed this world, the soaring peaks were the tallest in all of Straelon.
Snow clung to their twin summits, a shocking contrast to the sienna stone they were made of, and it was no wonder all of the Horned City seemed to be raising itself up from the sea below in worship of them.
Solyrian, the sunstar, would rise between the heights of the Sacred Sisters next month, its angle perfect as the first rays of day hit upon the mighty prism held where the mountains met halfway up.
The immense shard of crystal would guide a concentrated beam directly to the top of the Solyr Stone, channeling its mighty force straight into the earth.
As the energy built, the land would begin to pulse with shockwaves of power, bathing the Montrealm from end-to-end in blinding light before filtering into each and every citizen and feeding them, sustaining their bodies and magic until the next Occurrence.
It was customary, on the cusp of the event, to pray—to cry out from the depths of one’s own heart—and ask the Sisters for a boon.
Fifty years ago, Brand hadn’t known what to ask for. He’d been young, at his first Occurrence, and unable to care about anything other than surviving his responsibilities as Straelon’s Imperial Son.
This time, staring into the night, the twin moons hovering overhead…
“Help me,” he whispered, so quiet that his own ears could barely hear the sound. “Remake me. Bring me peace, and ease my spirit. Please, I want to be more than my weaknesses. I want to be able to breathe.”
In the deep dark, where no mortal creature had ever stepped foot, there was a snap.
Not the rending of twigs, or the crack of bones.
No, it was a falling into place. A soft sigh of relief. A laugh in the silence.
She’d almost forgotten that this was why she was here, that this moment was the true start of it.
The young Demon had been heard, though he didn’t know it. Not yet.
He wouldn’t appreciate the answer, not at first. He wouldn’t grasp its nuances, or see the light of it amidst his own shadows. He wouldn’t understand the mess of beauty and pain that was coming for him, ready to carve its name in blood upon his soul.
But he’d get exactly what he asked for.
Eventually.
Maybe.
If she was cunning and focused, and played her part well. If the pieces all listened and stopped fighting her.
Stars, help him.
Help all of them.