Chapter 2 The Twenty-Sixth
two
The Twenty-Sixth
Zydar
The mortals were brought to the High Glade at the changing of the light. Twenty-six fresh Vessels delivered like cargo to the Thunder Court's most sacred ground.
Pillars of black stone rose like a giant's teeth around the clearing's edge, each one carved with scenes of mortal armies kneeling in defeat. At the heart of it all, the Bloodstone pulsed with crimson light, twenty feet of crystal that had drunk from kings and beggars alike for a thousand years.
I hated this ritual.
Every year, the same ceremony dressed up as tradition when it was nothing but necessity. The Court needed what these mortals carried—the fire in their blood, the strength that we fae had traded away for immortality. I despised the pageantry but could not deny the hunger that drove us all.
They stood in their crooked line, trembling in wool and tattered homespun, reeking of sweat and the road. Some clutched wooden symbols as if their mother goddess might reach down and snatch them back. Others wept quietly.
One glance at Gryven told me he was thinking the same.
His weathered face bore the scars of three centuries of war and his silver hair was pulled back in the severe knot he'd worn since serving under my grandfather.
His dark wings, veined and heavy from age and battle, arched behind him like a shadow of his former glory.
"I thought we had decided on twenty-five this year," Gryven said, his voice carrying the clipped formality of the old guard. "Not twenty-six."
"We did."
Gryven's gaze sharpened. "Then explain the extra, my lord."
I looked over at the mortal girl. Miralyte.
She stood taller than most of her kind, golden hair braided back from a face that held no submission.
Her stance was rigid and proud, chin lifted as if she were addressing equals rather than her captors.
A curious excitement filled me. Perhaps this pageantry would be a little enjoyable this year, after all.
"Because I wanted to see what she would do." I nodded toward her. "Miralyte Tavora."
Gryven surveyed the line until his gaze found her. Most had bowed their heads in deference; the rest trembled. But not the one I had chosen. She stared straight into his war-hardened eyes and glared back with unflinching gold.
How amusing.
"And what did she do, my lord?"
"Exactly what I expected. She volunteered to take the place of that healer's apprentice beside her."
His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile on a kinder face. "So you claimed them both."
"I did."
"Your games grow more elaborate with each passing year, my lord."
“Your tongue grows sharper, Gryven.” I kept my expression neutral. There was no point in indulging Gryven in another verbal sparring match.
Instead, I walked up to the mortals and addressed the entire group. Fear was a lesson best learned early.
"Vessels," I declared.
All eyes fixed on me, as I knew they would. Even Miralyte's. She watched me with the same fury I'd seen in the village. Anger. Rage. Defiance.
Perfect.
"It is my task to ensure you survive and fulfill your obligations to this Court," I explained, letting thunder roll through my voice.
"The Thunder Court is your home now. From now until death, you belong here.
" I paused, scanning each face. "For those who would rather die than serve, I offer you a quick and merciful death. Here. Now."
I looked at her again. Miralyte's golden eyes merely hardened, like molten metal cooling into steel.
"Each of you will receive training," I held her burning gaze, as a smile curved my mouth. "You will learn our tongue. You will learn our ways. You will fight for the Thunder Court, as countless mortals have before you."
"For your compliance," I continued, "You will receive three meals a day, adequate clothing, housing and care until the day you die. Should you attempt to escape, or show disobedience, your stay at Thunder Court will quickly come to an end."
I faced them again. "There will be no second chances. Break one rule and you die. "
The Vessels stared back, their gazes wary, half in shock, half in terror. But none of them spoke or moved.
"Those who prove themselves useful may rise above their station. Those who prove themselves useless will be discarded."
I went on, not allowing for any interruptions. "You will bear an Oath Mark. This mark will bind you, keep you alive, and will only dissolve upon your last breath. "
It was a well understood fact that a fae couldn't lie, so I kept my explanations brief and often allowed their fear to fill in the blanks.
"It is true that we cannot kill or harm you in the ways that you know it. But believe me, there are other, worse ways of inflicting pain."
I let lightning pulse from my fingertips as if to prove my point. Small flashes of electricity twirled around my palm like a hypnotizing, deadly snake. Then, I let it vanish. No need to waste what I had for mortals who were already convinced of their sorry fate.
I turned to Gryven and nodded.
He spoke immediately, using a similar tone that I had used earlier. "When your name is called, step forward to receive your mark."
I stepped back and let him continue.
"First," he spoke, "to Terys Varant."
A tall, muscular male with broad shoulders and dark brown hair stepped forward. I'd chosen him for his strength and the quiet resolve in his dark eyes. He would survive the training, if he was smart.
Gryven pressed two fingers to his marking rune. The sigil flared red, then white-hot. Power flowed through me as I channeled lightning through his mark—a sensation like swallowing starfire, electric and wild. The magic crackled down my spine, gathering in my chest before I released it.
A bolt of blue-white lightning snapped from Gryven's fingers, striking Terys square on the wrist. The air filled with the scent of burned flesh and ozone.
Terys screamed and collapsed, clutching his arm as the lightning carved into his skin. When he finally struggled to his feet, a complex blue sigil glowed on his wrist, bordered in runic script.
"Terys Varant, you are marked," Gryven announced without emotion. "May you serve the Thunder Court with honor."
One by one, they marched forward. Each marking sent a fresh jolt of power through me—not unpleasant, but requiring careful control. Too little energy and the mark would fade; too much and the mortal would die.
Some collapsed and stayed down, sobbing. Others begged and pleaded. One young man lost control of his bladder, shaking so violently I thought he might faint before the mark took hold. A girl with red hair bit through her tongue trying not to scream.
“Miralyte Tavora,” Gryven called.
She came forward, posture firm, as if daring the mark to hurt her. She held his gaze with unwavering golden eyes as the red lightning laced along the circuit of her wrist, burning her skin.
She did not move an inch as the mark set into her flesh. She did not even flinch.
The bolt struck her wrist with the same force that had felled the others. I watched her face, expecting the cry of pain, the collapse, the submission.
Nothing happened.
The lightning hit her skin and simply... dissipated. Like rain striking stone. No burn. No mark. No reaction at all.
Ice flooded my veins. I felt the blood drain from my face as the impossible registered. In three centuries of Tithes, this had never happened. Could never happen. The Oath Mark was absolute—it bound every mortal, without exception.
Gryven's weathered face had gone ashen. He stared at his own hand, then at the girl, then back at me with something approaching panic in his ancient eyes.
"Again," I commanded, my voice hoarse.
Gryven pressed his fingers to the rune once more. Power flowed through me, stronger this time, desperate. The lightning that struck her wrist could have felled a horse.
Again, nothing. The energy vanished the moment it touched her skin, leaving no trace behind.
Gryven’s face had gone pale beneath his scars. His hand dropped to his side like he’d forgotten what to do with it. My eyes met Gryven's, and in his ancient gaze I saw the same recognition that was crystallizing in my own mind. The same terrible certainty.
Miralyte looked between us with those impossibly golden eyes, confusion flickering across her features for the first time. She glanced down at her unmarked wrist, then back at our faces.
"Something’s wrong, isn’t it?" she asked.
Everything. Everything was wrong. Or everything was finally, impossibly right.
I forced my expression back into its usual mask of cold authority, though my heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird. "Return to your place in line."
She hesitated, eyes narrowing as if trying to peel back every lie I hadn’t said. Then, with deliberate calm, she turned and took her place among the others—head high, like it was her throne and not her cage.
Gryven cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual when he called the final name. "Pelbie Ranthar."
I watched the brunette girl walk up to the front. She was shaking from head to toe, but her head was bowed. Gryven looked bored when he placed his fingers onto the rune.
From my place near the dais, I heard her muffled whimpers before I saw her drop. There was a soft thud. Her whole body spasmed once, and then she lay motionless on the stone floor, unconscious.
“No!” Miralyte broke from the line, running toward her.
I moved faster, summoning a wall of crackling lightning between them. She struck the barrier at full speed—white fire erupted where flesh met energy, sending her sprawling backward with a cry of pain.
She hit the ground hard, clutching hands that now bore angry red burns across the palms.
“What did I say about obedience?” I stepped through my own lightning wall as it dissipated. “You move when I say. Not before.”
She had courage, I'd give her that. But courage without wisdom would see her dead within a week. The burns on her hands would remind her that defiance had its consequences.
I glanced at the other Vessels. They watched their fallen comrade with wide, fearful eyes. At least she'd served as a proper example.
"Does anyone else wish to test my patience?"
Silence.
Miralyte pushed herself up from the stone floor, her burned hands shaking as one arm instinctively curled against her aching ribs. Her golden braid had come undone, loose strands framing a face pale with pain and fury. Blood trickled from her lip where she'd bitten it.
I turned away before I could study those defiant eyes too closely.
"Karys will escort you to your quarters," I announced to the group. "You will cleanse yourselves and don the clothing provided. You will gather in the great hall for your evening meal."
The Vessels filed out, following the dark-haired servant who had appeared at the glade's edge.
Karys was ancient even by fae standards.
She'd served my court since before my birth, since the days when Emystra ruled the Sun Court with absolute power.
Her wingless back and simple dress marked her as common fae, but her loyalty was absolute.
Before I could dismiss her, Miralyte was on her feet again, moving toward her unconscious friend. I caught her arm before she could reach Pelbie.
She was still weak from the lightning burn and swayed in my grip. I bit back a frustrated growl. Had that lesson earlier not been enough to deter her? Begrudgingly, I felt a touch of respect for her loyalty to her friend.
"Tavora." The weight of my power pressed against her, heavy as storm clouds.
She tried to pull free, but I held firm.
"This is my final warning. One act of sacrifice does not make you noble.
You are no different from any other Vessel in my service.
Restrain yourself, or I will cut out pieces of you and feed it to the ravens. "
She stopped struggling and met my eyes, golden fire blazing in her gaze. "I know exactly what you are doing." Her voice was steady despite the pain I knew she must be feeling. "The cruelty. The threats. The performance."
Her accent held traces of formal education—unusual for a hunter's daughter. Where had she learned to speak with such precision?
"You want them all to believe you are the merciless beast who breaks Vessels into submission," she continued. "But I see what lies beneath that mask."
I held her gaze, noting the intelligence there alongside the fury. "Be careful what you think you see, mortal."
I saw it then, the anger that would destroy her. The fury she was trying so hard to contain. I knew it well. I'd felt it often enough. It would devour her slowly, from the inside out, and when there was nothing left, it would break her. I felt sorry for her then, a little bit.
"You do not frighten me, Zydar of Thunder," she said, lifting her chin. "You cannot remake me into what you desire. You will not break me."
I almost believed she meant it. Almost.
"We shall see," I said, noting her unmarked wrist—smooth skin where the Oath Mark should have blazed blue. How was she even alive in this realm without the binding magic?
"Karys." I nodded to the servant.
"My lord?"
"Escort the girl and her friend to the healing ward."
"Yes, my lord."
"And Karys?"
"My lord?"
"Do not let her leave your sight."
"Of course, my lord."
I turned back to Miralyte, who was cradling her burned hands against her chest.
"If you wish to live long enough to see your friend recover, I suggest you learn compliance quickly. My patience has limits, and you are testing them."
Her eyes darted from mine to Pelbie's still form, then she nodded slowly.
"Wise choice. Karys, take them."
"Yes, my lord."
Karys placed a firm hand on Miralyte's shoulder, guiding her toward the glade's exit. She lingered at the threshold, staring back at me with eyes full of promised retribution. Then she was gone, following Karys into the depths of Thunder Court.
I turned to Gryven, who had been watching the exchange with barely concealed alarm. "The mark failed completely. The lightning passed through her like she wasn't even there."
"Shall I keep watch over her, my lord?" Gryven asked, his scarred hands clasped behind his back.
I was quiet for a long moment. Gryven was the only soul in Thunder Court I trusted completely. Even so, something made me hesitate.
"No." I shook my head. "I will handle her training personally."
Gryven's eyebrows rose slightly—the most surprise he ever allowed himself to show. "You have not taken a personal student in decades, my lord."
"This one is different." I looked toward the archway where she'd disappeared. "Narietta may have been right about her."
"The one we have been waiting for?"
"Perhaps. We shall see if she survives long enough to find out."