33. Chapter 33
Chapter 33
Himureal, the Frostweaver
I mbeciles.
All of them.
How can they not see the things I can do for them? They willfully choose not to follow me! They believe I am not worthy of their devotion, as if I am some false God.
False God.
False God.
The words are disgusting, and they are against everything I am, everything I believe in. All I ask for is a little loyalty. But they cannot even give me that.
They're rotten, rotten, rotten, the lot of them.
Like that worthless high priest of mine.
He stole my Shadowweaver. She was mine, finally, blissfully, willing to stand by my side, and he ruined it. Took her away and left me alone again.
"Frostweaver, I-" the blue-haired Water wielder pokes her head into the doorway to my chambers, her body hidden on the stairs. "I came to see if you were going to hold court today."
She is loyal. She listens.
What was her name ?
Right. Right.
"Of course, I will be holding court today, Nimh. Do you have the next group ready for their judgment?"
"I do, my God." She bows her head respectfully, as she should.
I rise to my feet, my white robe falling to the ground around me. When did the bottom become so dirty? Brushing my hands down the front to smooth it, I cross the room to Nimh. "And are you ready for your judgment?"
Since the traitorous high priest Zeph, I have taken to judging the blood of Nimh every day to ensure she stays loyal to me. She extends her arm, and I drag my shadow blade in a thin line right above the one from yesterday. Her blood smells like the green weeds that wash up on the shores after they have sat in the sun for a few days. It is not pleasant, but tasting it is a sacrifice I have to make to ensure the safety of Ytopie.
As I saw yesterday, she is loyal. Loyal. Her intentions are pure, a swirl of gratefulness to have a place to belong.
Split between Summer and Winter her whole life, with no idea where her Water magic fell, she has always felt out of sorts.
It's amazing what someone will do for a place to belong.
I follow her into the great hall, where twenty fae have gathered to submit to their judgment. The sconces are lit with a low-smoldering candle, allowing long shadows to grow across the wide space. The swirling marble floor is stained with small droplets of blood from the sacrifices and judgments that fill this hall daily .
I refuse to let them clean it. This blood is for me. Sacrificed for me. Offered to me.
Crossing those stained floors, I survey all those who have been summoned today, seeing a variety of seasons represented. But not mine.
Never mine.
No, the only one who bears my season was stolen. Stolen. Stolen.
She will return to me. There is no other option.
Lowering myself into the large, ornate stone chair, I nod at Nimh. "Line up," she calls, addressing the crowd. "The Frostweaver is ready to receive you."
The fae may as well be faceless to me. None of them are remarkable. None of them are special. Not one. Their blood is boring. Most of them are happy to have a God here at all, with little to no care of what that means, as long as they can continue their lives and the humans stay where they are.
Do they not see that if not for their dirty magic, they, too, would be human?
They think the word as if it is cursed.
Human.
Human.
Yes, humans put me in this position, not bringing me back, but Lucinda had to have had her reasons. The fae are no different. The fae have ridden into this city on the back of magic that did not belong to them.
But not mine. Barely mine .
They never figured it out, did they? Why were there so few Winter practitioners?
I lost less magic than my siblings in the banishing. A little gift Lucinda hid for me in the ritual. And even still, the magic I lost that blanketed the land was toxic to almost all who tried to consume it.
Winter magic is only for those most worthy.
The powerful.
That is why the Shadowweaver is so important. So special. Few have been able to bear the burden that is Winter, and she has done it with such grace.
The daughter of my magic.
"Your grace?" Nimh says, clearing her throat.
I must have lost myself in thought for a moment.
"Right, yes, you, say your name," I say with a wave of my hand. My fingernails have blood under them.
"Bracken," the large man in front of me says, not bowing his head.
Why does he not bow? Does he not realize who I am?
"That name is familiar." I wrack my brain, trying to place it. "Nimh, why is that name familiar?"
"He made your throne, Frostweaver," she says from beside me. She is so small standing next to me, her long grey dress covering her bare feet.
Why is she so small? Are fae not made of heartier stock?
Bracken puffs out his chest and nods. "I did."
"It's a good throne," I tell him, nodding my head. " Sturdy. Come, let me judge you."
The broad man grits his teeth and steps forward, extending his arm to me. I drag my blade across the underside of his forearm, and it blooms beautifully as I collect the nectar on the flat of my blade. His blood smells like petrichor, and it makes my mouth water. I drag my tongue through it, my vision going fuzzy for a moment.
But all I see is rage.
Rage.
Rage.
This man does not believe in me.
He does not support me.
No, he believed the words the traitor Loris spewed at the tournament.
Not just believed them. He took them to heart; he took place in a resistance, trying to turn fae against me.
This is not just him not believing in me and my greatness like those others in the dungeons. No, this is him actively working against me.
Against me.
Against me.
Does he not see how good I am? How good he has it? Does he not know the way my siblings would treat him?
"You dare work against me?" I say through gritted teeth, pointing the blade at him. "You think you know better than your God?"
"You're no God of mine," he spits, his nose curled in a sneer. "The only God I believe in is the Shadowweaver."
"The Shadowweaver is mine! My daughter! Of my magic!" I'm on my feet now, charging towards him, and he holds his ground, not even flinching as I approach.
Fool.
"She will never be corrupted by the likes of you." The man is stupid and brave, and if his blood is to be believed—which it should be because blood tells no lies—he is instrumental in forming a group of fae who wish to rid Krillium of me.
Of it's rightful God.
I cannot let this stand.
"You have been judged and been found lacking," I say, stepping towards him. He curls his fists at his side, chin held high, facing his consequence with bravery that he is stupid to posses. "You are found guilty of blasphemy and conspiracy against your God. Your sentence is death."
Bracken's eyes widen a fraction, and I watch the light go out as I pull the blade across his throat.
The blood drains, splashing my bare feet and staining the marble below us.
No, I don't think I will let them clean this up.
It's such a pretty pattern.