11. The Choosing
The Choosing
So many golden eyes.
The Aesymarean Legends sat before us, divine servants from the various domains lined against the walls, whispering amongst themselves. The air thrummed with power, making my skin prickle with awareness of how very mortal I was in this room full of gods.
The thirty-seven blessed who had made it through the Proving were lined up in front of a table of polished amethyst. An equal number of Legends sat observing us, but their attention kept drifting to one particular spot in our line.
Even if I couldn't feel Thatcher through our bond, I would have known where he stood just by watching where those glowing eyes kept landing.
I supposed the Dreamweavers had been right. None of them looked angry, or fearful. They looked utterly and completely intrigued.
I glanced down the row to find a completely different version of the brother I’d left this morning.
His team had dressed him in a black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, slicked his dark hair to perfection, and he met those golden gazes without flinching, the hint of a smirk threatening his lips.
He was either playing his part really well, or he was actually enjoying the attention.
Briefly, I had worried that he might change his mind. What if the pact we'd made in blood and grief last night had crumbled under the weight of all this?
But no, through the bond, I felt it—a steel-coated resolution that mirrored my own.
I supposed I could start playing my part as well.
I turned back to face the table, meeting every gaze that fell on me. I forced my lips into what I hoped was a pleasant smile, trying to project confidence instead of the terror clawing at my insides.
A scribe made his way to the front of the room, positioning himself on the opposite side of the amethyst table. His hands shook slightly as he unrolled a scroll, and I didn't blame him—being the focus of this much divine attention would rattle anyone.
"The viewing time is complete," he announced, his voice echoing off the crystal walls.
"We may now begin the Choosing. I do hope everyone ends the day with their first choice, but that, of course, is unlikely.
" A few Legends chuckled at that. "Per tradition, the seven—pardon me— six Legends who presided over the Proving will have the honor of choosing first. The remaining Legends will make their decisions following.
Thanks to Aella, Aesymar of Chaos, you will each find a golden token with your number under your seat. "
The Legends reached for their tokens, and I tried my best at reading their reactions.
Some looked pleased with their numbers, others resigned.
And then my eyes fell on him as if he was some kind of unfortunate magnet.
Xül. He wore a black suit with red crystal detailing, and the braids from yesterday had been tied back behind his head.
I saw his perfect jaw clench as he tossed his coin on the table dismissively.
"Will number one please stand," the scribe called.
Miria rose gracefully from her chair, dark green robes shimmering around her .
"Miria, congratulations on your placement. It is always an honor to choose first," he said. "Please announce your choice."
I tried desperately to catch Miria's eye, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin in what I hoped looked like quiet confidence.
She was our best hope—the only Legend who'd shown any compassion during yesterday's horror show.
Her gaze swept across our line, pausing on several contestants, but never quite landing on me. Never quite landing on Thatcher either.
"Nicolai Themstrom," she finally said, her voice ringing through the hall.
A pale-haired boy stepped forward from somewhere in the middle of our group. He looked young—maybe nineteen or twenty. He moved to stand behind Miria's chair, hands clasped behind his back.
Fuck.
Our best option was gone, and we'd barely started.
"Will number two please stand."
My blood chilled as Chavore rose from his chair.
I assumed Chavore shared the domain of his father, but I wasn’t certain.
If the gods were basing their choices on the type of abilities we'd displayed, he might choose me. The Dreamweavers had said he was just and fair. The star-wielder who'd forged weapons from celestial light was the obvious choice. Gods. He was going to pick me wasn’t he?—
"Thatcher Morvaren," Chavore said with a warrior's smile, nodding toward my brother.
My heart stopped. This was too close, too dangerous. How were we supposed to?—
The sound of a chair slamming back erupted across the hall before Thatcher could even step out of line. Xül stood, hands pressing down on the table as his gaze grew colder.
"Am I to assume this a joke?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Those eyes narrowed at Chavore, who looked utterly unfazed, merely shrugging as if Xül's outburst was nothing more than a minor annoyance.
"Is there a problem, old friend?"
The word friend dripped with sarcasm.
"He doesn't belong in Bellarium, you fool," Xül snapped. "His abilities are far more suited for Draknavor."
I wracked my brain trying to remember the names of the divine domains. Gods, why hadn’t I paid more attention to the stories?
"I'd say he's perfectly suited for the Domain of War," Chavore shot back, his voice remaining maddeningly calm. "Power like that could reshape entire battlefields."
So Chavore didn't share a domain with his father after all. Interesting.
"Power like that," Xül said through gritted teeth, "comes from the same source as mine. Life and death, growth and decay—these belong to my domain alone.”
“Do they?" Chavore tilted his head, genuine curiosity in his voice. "It looked remarkably like warfare to me. Quick, decisive, effective." His smile turned sharp. "Rather like good strategy, actually."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
Other Legends watched the exchange with interest, some looking amused, others concerned.
The contestants in our line were dead silent, probably terrified of drawing attention while two gods argued over Thatcher like he was a particularly interesting weapon.
"Absurd," Xül said, his voice soft but deadly. "You think because you can move pieces on a board that you understand the forces that drive them."
"And you think because you commune with corpses that you have some monopoly on destructive power." Chavore threw a smug look towards Xül.
Xül's hands clenched into fists on the table. "You arrogant?—"
"Gentlemen," a new voice cut through their argument. Elysia. "Perhaps we could save the philosophical debates for after the Choosing? I’m sure many of us have actual criteria beyond petty rivalry."
Chavore's expression didn't change. "Of course, Elysia. How thoughtless of me." He settled back into his chair. "Thatcher Morvaren, if you would."
Thatcher stepped forward, his face carefully neutral. But as he moved to stand behind Chavore's chair, I caught a glimpse of resolve in his expression. He looked determined.
Xül remained standing, fury pouring from him in waves. The scribe looked between them nervously, clearly unsure whether the confrontation was over.
"Will number three please stand?" the scribe nearly whimpered.
Xül sighed, not bothering to move. "Fine," he said, his voice clipped with irritation. "I'll take the other one."
His gaze cut to me. There was nothing warm or welcoming in his face—just cold assessment and irritation simmering. I had to fight not to flinch.
"Apologies, Warden," the scribe said in a shaky voice. "Could you clarify your choice, please?"
"The other Morvaren."
Really? He couldn't even say my name? I stiffened as annoyance slithered through my veins.
"Well," said a woman in white and gold, the colors of the domain of light and order, no doubt.
"That's an oddly hypocritical choice, considering you were just arguing that contestants should be sorted into placements that suit them.
" Her voice was sweetly poisonous. "What will a star-forger do in the depths of Draknavor? "
Xül finally sat, gesturing carelessly for me to join him. "Well, it would seem we're not following proper protocol today, Meriela," he said, sarcasm lacing every word. "I suppose you’ll have to make do with whatever's left."
She pursed her lips but said nothing more. At least I'd avoided her. Because the way she was looking at me now told me everything I needed to know. I had been her number one choice. And where she wanted to take me was the last place I wanted to be. The domain of Olinthar himself.
I walked to stand behind Xül's chair, anger and dread warring in my chest. Being this close to him was overwhelming—whatever energy radiated from him slithered across my skin.
I tried to pay attention to the rest of the selections, but my mind was spinning.
This was not good. Not good at all. For me or for Thatcher.
We were supposed to be working together, gathering information.
I’d hoped we’d at least have mentors that shared some form of connection.
Instead, we'd been split between two Legends who clearly despised each other.
I glanced at Thatcher and our eyes met briefly. He didn't look worried at all—if anything, he looked pleased. Satisfied, even. Like this was exactly what he'd wanted.
I narrowed my eyes, not understanding his reaction. Why was he not as concerned as I was?
Then I felt it—a whisper down the bond between us, so faint I almost missed it.
Who knows a father better than his son?