Chapter Three
RIVEN
Asnap of autumn air swirls crunchy leaves around my feet, which is only slightly louder than Angora’s prattling.
“I think it’s good you changed clothes. The blue of your shirt really accentuates the blue in my eyes.
It’s the little things Fate will pay notice to.
” Yes, Fate. The faceless entity that pulls the strings while we all pray they’re benevolent.
“We want to appear entirely united and cohesive.” I don’t know why this matters so much to her.
Freshly manicured fingers press into my bicep as she squeamishly dodges a puddle.
“I know that love will find us; my mystic told me so.” Pain radiates behind my eyes as I fight the urge to roll them.
Her mystic also told her I would nearly die at the hand of a peanut.
I am not allergic to them. Ate a whole cup of them right in front of her to prove it, and yet, she made me switch from peanuts to pistachios for the bar anyway.
Well, she didn’t make me, but I thought switching would be easier than continuing to argue with her.
Long story short, this mystic is a wagon-dwelling fraud.
“I think, if we wear coordinating outfits to the check-in ceremonies, we can raise our audience ratings. People like things that are pleasing to the eye.” I nod absentmindedly, letting my eyes pass over the Festival grounds.
Colorful banners hang all around, snapping in the breeze, and temporary stalls line the streets, selling everything from food to mementos.
Angora is easy. I watch her from the corner of my eye, gliding through the crowd like she owns every set of eyes in the realm.
She’s beautiful; she’s confident; she doesn’t ask me to talk about anything that matters—Fate, that alone should earn her a medal.
Entering the Festival for her? Not a big deal.
Just another month of games and attention, and the reward she promised is worth the trouble.
At the end of it, I’ll tell the Moirai I want to take things slow with her.
They can’t fault me for that. And neither will Angora.
She probably doesn’t want a soulmate, nor does she want my depths any more than I want her to look at them. We’re a good match in that way.
We move past the tavern, the scent of hops mingling with the rich smells of fried dough and cider. A stand sits behind it, erected of wood and temporary canvas, selling donuts and confections to the eager people. I bet Poppy’ll stop there before she finds me.
Cobblestone streets lead us to the arena where the Festival of Fates’ main attraction lies: the matching ceremony.
The opening act for the month-long charade the Moirai swear shows Fate’s hand in true love, but I think it's just a way those three meddling witches entertain themselves at our expense.
The matching ceremony takes place in the Arena of Affection, a basin of ancient stone at the center of the festival grounds.
The back of the arena is accented by a raised stage that’s cocooned by the ancient trees that make up the sacred grove.
The rest of the arena is surrounded by a ring of seats where fans and spectators watch the spectacle they put us through, and before the stage are magical glowing runes pulsing around the sunken well where matches are made, arches covered in winding ivy rising above contestants as they walk down to meet their fate.
I tune back into the present for a moment. “And I think at the second ceremony, we should wear imported silk because it is a sign of…” Good, Angora is still talking about nothing. My eyes fix on the arena, checking it for renovations even though it never changes. Nothing about the Moirai does.
The marble stage sits to one side, and below it, the Well of Possibility awaits.
It’s a wide, smooth basin dissected in the middle by a curtain that hangs a foot or so off the ground.
Once the ceremony begins, one by one, the Moirai will direct potential matches to stand on either side of the curtain and roll their enchanted die.
Each contestant will roll their die from their side of the curtain, and if their scores combine to be ten or higher, then they will be bound for the rest of the month.
When they roll, the basin will hum as it absorbs the magic of Fate, and above, the shimmering translucent score crystals wait to reflect the couple’s emotional resonance score, revealing their potential compatibility to the crowd.
A ring of sigils wraps around the basin, bearing the twelve sigils of Fate—love, honesty, devotion, choice, sacrifice, growth, safety, passion, understanding, resilience, emotional intuition, and balance.
After rolling, these too will light up, showing the traits the couple possesses in their pairing.
Before the Festival, hopeful contestants apply, and the Moirai make potential pairings based on these traits, but rolling the dice reveals what Fate has decided.
It shows if the pairing has been truly blessed.
For a month after matching, the pair will cohabitate (usually in the female’s home in the case of heteros—a win for me because the estate Angora’s father bought her has a natural hot spring in the yard).
At the month’s end, after trials and bonding activities, the couples all roll again in the Well of Possibilities.
If their emotional resonance score is eighteen or higher, then the Moirai offer to seal their souls as mates.
A shiver snakes down my spine, and I forcibly pull my eyes away from the arena.
I think back to my first bonding ceremony.
Poppy by my side, supportive as ever. The die warm in my hand.
Another wave of shivers rolls down my spine, pebbling my flesh as I remember the strangling sensation I felt at that Festival.
In simpler terms? I was nervous.
My lineage ruined me for love long before Fate ever tried to fix me up.
That final ceremony at my first Festival had been brutal.
To know how disappointed Poppy was, not with me, but with the situation and her lack of a soulmate, was crushing.
She was my friend, and I knew how badly she wanted love.
She’s probably grateful now that her first Festival didn’t work out.
Fate knows she deserves far better than me.
And I’m glad the other two didn’t, because those two asshats didn’t deserve her either.
Poppy and I had stood side by side that day, my palms sweating and heart racing like I was facing battle instead of potential love. I’d felt the truth gnawing at me then: If I can’t love the girl beside me, Fate help me, maybe I can’t love anyone at all.
I’d laughed it off, of course. Blamed the nerves. Blamed the lighting. Blamed anything except the real root of it. My parents’ sham love showed me the cracks that could live in a relationship, and I’ve been trying to hide the fissures it made in my heart ever since.
Shit. This is getting dark. I’m here to get ass, not psychoanalyze myself.
My eyes lock on a wave of chestnut hair, and the warm eyes that sit just below a panel of wispy bangs.
There she is. Elephant ear in hand and a forced smile on her pink lips.
Poppy moves through the crowd, her face contorting in annoyance when another Festival-goer bumps into her.
Her lips move in an insult, coaxing a laugh from me. Tension melts away from my shoulders.
She showed up. Of course she did. Poppy always does right by me, even when I don’t deserve it. Which is why she’s standing here in the crowd with her hair catching every lantern flame as if she belonged in some painter’s fever dream.
I try not to stare—Fate knows Angora will read into it and start another fight if she catches me—but it’s impossible not to notice how bright and steady she looks against the drab revelry around her.
“Poppy! Over here!” I call out, and Angora goes silent and rigid beside me.
Poppy’s eyes fix on me, and an exasperated smile spreads across her full lips.
I feel steadier now, the slight tremor in my hands ceasing when I pull them out of Angora’s claws to greet Poppy.
Her scent wraps around me: warm vanilla sugar, cloves, and something I can only describe as homey.
It’s calming me more than the two shots of hundred-proof bourbon I threw back before leaving my house this afternoon.
“Finally, I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” I can hear the wishful thinking in her whispered tone, and when she pulls back, the gentle crease in her brows tells me she’s worried about me. Poppy pulls away, eyes flicking to my current girlfriend. “Good afternoon, Angora.”
“I’m going to check in.” Angora ignores Poppy entirely. “You should too.” This command is not so subtly directed at me.
My hand catches her around the wrist as she spins, and the iron of her dainty bracelets burns against my flesh. “Aren’t you going to acknowledge Poppy?” Even though it hurts, I hold on, unwavering in my subtle defense of my best friend.
The crowd continues around us, carrying ale steins and oversized pretzels, completely oblivious to the battle of wills taking place between us. The wind blows, sending Poppy’s hair flying, carrying her vanilla scent around me in a tornado.
“Riven, it’s fine.” Poppy’s hand rests on the arm I’m holding onto Angora with, her stacked gold rings cool against my skin.
“You’re going to melt the flesh from your fingers,” she whispers, eyes on the smoke coming from my hand.
Of course she remembers iron burns fae when my own girlfriend does not.
“Angora.” My voice is warning, and I can barely hear the hushed whispers of Poppy’s healing spells over her dramatic sigh.