Three Festivals Ago
POPPY
The sky is offensively beautiful for a day like this. The sun is shining, and a gentle breeze ruffles my chestnut waves. It's the kind of weather poets use as proof that Fate has a sense of romance.
And I'm proof that it doesn’t.
The Crone, the eldest of the Moirai, steps forward, the sage leader of the witches that run the Festival of Fates. For those unaware, she once more tells the story of the Festival's origins, but I don’t need to listen. I’ve known about it, obsessed over it, since I was a young girl.
The Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone are the Moirai, and they are bound by sacred oaths to give their lives to the service of Fate itself, acting as its voice and vessel.
For generations, they have guided the Festival of Fates, a months-long competition where hopeful romantics roll the enchanted Dice of Destiny to try to find their soul mate.
After the matching ceremony, the true trials begin for the couples.
They must cohabitate for one month and face tribunals meant to test desire, devotion, and truth.
Some pairs unravel, while others ignite, and all the while, the Moirai watch with ancient, steady eyes, honoring whatever Fate chooses to reveal.
Fate is the omnipotent force we all revere as much as fear.
At the end of the month, the couples roll the Dice of Destiny once more, and Fate decides who will be soulbound and who will not. To roll an eighteen or higher means the Moirai offer you and your partner a soulbond, though ultimately, who stays together or parts is up to the couples themselves.
“One at a time,” the Crone says after her monologue, “you will step forward and speak your truth, then a final roll will decide your fate.”
I stand beneath the woven arch riddled with gold leaf, my hands clasped before me.
I’m pretending my stomach isn't trying to fold itself into a paper crane.
Around me, the crowd murmurs with warm anticipation.
They want to know what will become of the matches they've spent a month watching fall in love.
Or, in my case, fall into platonic like.
In sharp juxtaposition, the youngest of the three spinners of fate speaks next. “Those with scores over eighteen will be soulbound by the magic of Fate and by us, the Moirai.” The roaring in my ears intensifies. That. That is what I want.
But it won’t be with him.
I look over at my match. Riven stands at my side like he always does: casually perfect and devastating without trying.
Sunlight catches on the edge of his light brown hair as if the world is determined to put a spotlight on him.
Shall I compare him to a summer’s day? I could.
He looks like sunlight got bored and decided to become a fae male, which is perfect and contradictory, since he is a shadow fae.
His warm honey eyes snap to mine, like he felt my gaze and had to defiantly meet it. “Ready, Poppy?” he breathes in his Northern twang, voice so low it’s only audible to me.
“Absolutely not,” I whisper back.
His grin is sharp and teasing, making something low in my ribs twist. Not in a he’s-the-one way.
More in a why-couldn’t-I-have-fallen-for-someone-like-him way.
His smile persists. Curse me, it could probably power a city.
Devastating. Tilted. Full of mischief. Just like Riven himself.
My amber eyes pass over him, from a jaw sharper than it has any right to be, over the scar under his bottom lip he earned in the Ogre War, to the forearms that look like they were carved by a deity who loves women.
“Worried I’ll change my mind?” His canine teeth bite gently into his bottom lip, a little long for his mouth, and yet, somehow, the imperfection looks devilishly handsome on him.
“No,” I snort. “I know better than anyone how unready you are for love.” I shoot him a playful look.
No. Riven Shadowbane was far from ready to settle down, a fact he didn’t know until a week or so into our cohabitation.
I didn’t take it personally. It’s him, not me.
He is still young enough that he jokes like nothing matters and fights as if everything does.
I inhale deeply. His unique scent of wood and fresh linens is coated in poor decisions and expensive bourbon.
Yes, Riven is charming and beautiful in a way that feels like a personal attack, but he also is not what I want right now. I need security, and I want love.
He grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“If I had to be ready, it’d be you, Poppy.
” He’s so close I can taste the peppermint on his tongue and see flecks of gold glittering in his eyes, reflecting off the afternoon sun.
My head dips, lips pecking his warm, calloused hand.
“Please don’t scorn me and never speak to me again.
You’re the only real friend I have.” Though the month didn’t turn into romance, we got far closer than any friendship I’ve ever had before. Forced proximity will do that.
“I know, and don’t worry,” I pull his hand away from my face and lace my fingers with his, “you won’t get rid of me so easily.
” Even though we didn’t find romantic love, the Festival might have helped us find our platonic soulmates.
For the first week of the mandatory cohabitation after our matching ceremony, I was a nervous wreck.
Constantly sick to my stomach and stumbling over my words, but as soon as he said he wasn’t ready to settle down and apologized for wasting my time, that’s when the fun began.
Never before have I laughed so hard or opened up so easily.
We would lie awake all night, lying on the floor of his manor house, telling stories and sharing our hopes and dreams. Somewhere in there, I told him that even though I wasn’t from Fate’s Fortune, I wanted to stay, and then he offered me a job at his bar, the Foxhole, and the apartment above it, too.
So I’m not going anywhere any time soon.
One by one, the couples are called to step forward and reveal the truth of their match in front of the audience.
This is the final ceremony, the big reveal, the moment where every matched pair either steps forward united…
or steps apart for good. For Riven and me, a whole month of bonding trials, shared tasks, ridiculous challenges, late-night confessionals, and one almost-kiss under the lantern bridge have all led to this.
“Tell us of your match,” the Mother begs of the couple before her.
“We’re in love!” the male says. The crowd awws at something his match says, but I’m too distracted to listen.
I inhale, consuming the citrus blossom scent in the air, pretending disappointment doesn’t sit bitter on my tongue.
Riven and I did have chemistry at first. Undeniably so.
The kind of spark that makes onlookers lean forward and whisper.
But chemistry doesn’t mean permanence. And permanence is the one thing I refuse to gamble with.
Riven exhales beside me, subtle but heavy.
He’d told me that maybe I should wait for him to be ready.
That he loved being around me and saw the kind heart I have.
But I can’t wait. He isn’t ready and doesn’t know if he ever will be.
From the barmaids he flirts with to the Moirai themselves, everyone knows it—everyone except the people still rooting for our fairytale ending in the audience.
The Mother’s voice rings out, warm and ceremonial. “Riven Shadowbane. Poppy Meadows. Step forward and roll.”
A heartbeat.
Then another.
Then his raspy voice wraps around my soul. “Friends?” he whispers. Riven touches my hand lightly, the way someone handles unfired clay.
“Friends.” Just friends. Together, we step forward, and I keep my chin up, expression serene and practiced, even though a tiny, traitorous ache pulses under my ribs.
He shoots me a sideways look, half apology, half relief. “For what it’s worth,” he murmurs, “If I were ready, you could’ve been a terrifyingly good match.”
I snort. “And you would’ve driven me feral within a week.”
He winks, and something flutters deep in my core. “Who says that’s a bad thing?” Fate, help me.
When we step forward, the Moirai place a die into Riven’s hand, and the crowd roars when he rolls and the magical instrument of Fate ripples with a glowing eighteen. In another lifetime, I’d be shrieking. Jumping up and down with glee that I’d found my soulmate. But that’s not today.
“I think we all know where this is leading,” the Maiden cheers giddily.
But the Crone is not so deceived by our high roll. Her gaze pierces through Riven when she asks, “Fae. Tell us of your match.”
Riven’s hand tightens in mine, and he exhales before answering.
“Poppy’s brilliant, stubborn, and somehow immune to my charm—which honestly feels like a bit of an attack, but I’m working through it.
” The crowd giggles, and I force a smile onto my lips.
Somewhere beneath the bruised disappointment, under the sharp, aching edge of it all…
something lighter flickers. Maybe I’m not completely immune to his charm.
Riven isn’t my match, I remind myself. He’s not my love story.
“And one truth you did not expect?” the Crone prompts.
Riven’s fingers drum against his thigh, fast and light, betraying nerves he tries to suppress. He scratches the back of his neck, gaze sliding to me before he catches himself and looks at the floor instead.
“One truth I didn’t expect?” he repeats, relaxing back with a cocky slouch. “I didn’t expect her to be…steady,” he says, forcing a grin that doesn’t quite fit. “Everyone else either tries to impress me or use me. Her though? She just is. Throws a guy off his game.” His foot taps restlessly.
“Fate tells me there’s more to be said here,” the Maiden says, almost like it’s a question.