Chapter Seven
POPPY
Current Festival
Ibarely slept. The night passed in restless fragments of half-dreams and sharp fears, tangled together until I couldn’t tell which was worse: the hope of still one day being chosen or the fear of a curse that would come with being caught by the Moirai.
My home is too quiet for the state I’m in. Too still. Every small sound echoes, from the creak of the floor to the uneven rhythm of my breathing—it feels like the space itself is waiting to see if I’ll bolt.
I considered it.
Just for a second.
The tempting thought flickered in my mind, but it was fruitless. Even if I ran, there are few places I could go that the Moirai wouldn’t find me.
A knock comes before I can slip deeper into my panic. Three sharp raps and my stomach drops.
It’s time.
“Festival transport,” a voice calls from the other side, clipped and efficient.
Of course. Of course, they don’t give you the dignity of hesitation or privacy to flee in a moment such as this.
How is this mass forced cohabitation a good idea?
Do the Moirai forget that I’m not the only one who maybe isn’t thrilled with the match?
Maybe some of us want some peace before being forced to cohabitate on an island for a month.
Hells, in my first match year, one pair tried to kill one another. And that’s not a metaphor.
I open the door, creaking wood giving way to shadows and a self-assured smile.
Riven rests against the door frame like he’s been there for hours instead of seconds, hair a little mussed, expression settled into a smirk.
In one hand, he holds a steaming cup of coffee; in the other, a bagel wrapped in paper is held up like some offering to a very unwilling goddess. Me. I’m the unwilling goddess.
A handler of Fate stands a few feet behind him, watching us both like we’re already misbehaving. He rolls his eyes, looking very over this. Dude, it hasn’t even started yet. Not really.
Riven’s gaze drags over me in a slow and assessing way. Like he’s obsessed with me. Already in performance mode, I see.
“Well,” he says, voice rough with sleep and amusement, “you look devastating.”
I glare at him. “I got two hours of sleep.”
“Mm.” He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, extending the coffee to me.
“It’s working for you. Very tragic. Very alluring.
Like a woman about to make several poor decisions.
Which, I must say, is my favorite type of woman.
” He tilts his head to the sky. “Good pick, Fate!” A rumble in the distant clouds almost feels like a response.
I take the cup, mostly so I have something to do with my hands.
“Bite me.” I should be nicer to him. Even though he’s a shameless, irresponsible flirt with bad taste in women, he is never mean to me.
He came bearing coffee and bagels this morning, for Fate’s sake!
He’s honestly annoyingly considerate when it comes to my needs.
Riven’s head snaps down, and his grin sharpens. “Gladly,” he murmurs. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.” I take back what I said—he deserves my ire.
Heat flashes up my neck before I can stop it. I hate that. I hate that he can still do that—slip under my skin and act like it’s nothing, like this is nothing. Like we’re not about to fake an entire relationship in front of Fate itself.
Our fingers brush when I reach for the bagel. It’s brief, and technically accidental, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.
Neither do I.
For a second, the doorframe narrows. The handler disappears behind a fog of shadows. The world quiets.
Riven’s eyes flick up to mine, something unreadable passing through them that somehow feels both soft and sharp, but then it’s gone.
“Ready?” he asks, too casually. No. Absolutely not. “Who knows, we might have fun.” While it took him nearly thirty years to develop his knack for making everything fun or a joke, it only took me three failed Festivals and a decade and a half to develop my cynicism.
“Probably not. Let’s get this over with.”
He offers a quiet laugh, falling into step beside me as the handler turns and leads the way down the stairs and then to the path leading to the docks.
The fog clears somewhat with the rising sun, allowing me to see every single besotted couple making their way onto the ferry.
The opulent boat is stocked with brunch, cocktails, and musicians who look personally offended by silence.
Riven’s hand finds the small of my back, helping guide us through the crowd until we’re at the back of the boat.
I sit with a huff. This ferry ride is an unnecessary addition.
Magic could’ve snapped us to the island in a heartbeat, but the Moirai prefer ceremony over mercy. Always.
“Everything okay?” Riven asks, his face too close to mine.
“No,” I growl under my breath. “Every single couple looks so happy!” My tone is incredulous because that’s how I feel.
Every time I’ve been in the Festival, at least one couple is ill-matched and makes it very clear.
But this year, each and every one of them is giggling, kissing, and holding hands.
How? How does Fate get it right for the first time in decades, and I’m still out in the cold? Maybe we’re the mismatch this year.
Riven chuckles. “I never considered you one to relish in the suffering of others.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, steam spilling from his mouth into the cold air when he exhales. “I like it.”
“Shut up.” I roll my eyes.
“Stick with me, babe.” His sharp incisors bite into the bagel, cream cheese lingering on his lip. “I’m excellent in a crisis and devastatingly handsome under pressure.” I’m sure my face gives away the fact that I’m not so convinced. “Chin up, gorgeous. We’ve survived worse.”
I snort. “Have we?”
“What about the orc brawl in the Foxhole last spring solstice?”
I shiver. Yeah, that was bad.
“Fine, I trust you.” His wink is smooth. Honed from years of practice.
In general, I do trust him. But do I trust this is a good idea—that our plan to mess with Fate won’t end horrendously? No. No, I don’t. “Just give me my bagel.”
By the time we disembark, the sun is kissing the horizon, and the Isle of Fate has risen out of the sea like something conjured for spectacle and intimacy.
Palm trees arch overhead, white stone paths gleam in the sun, and the air is heavy with salt, magic, and the soft thrum of anticipation.
Couples spill off the ferry ahead of us in a wave of laughter and clutched hands, already snuggling into each other as if the island itself is tugging them closer.
Riven does the same without missing a beat, slipping an arm around my waist like it’s muscle memory.
Like this is what we’ve always done. He smiles for the watching world.
It’s convincing enough for those who don’t know him, but I feel the hesitation in the way his fingers flex, like he’s remembering this is only for show.
This closeness is wrong for friends, and too careful for lovers.
I’m about to pull away and call it off when I glance up at him and I catch it: the flicker of unease beneath the swagger that I interpret as the fear of being found out, the worry that others will see his shortcomings and not choose him.
After seeing that, I finally allow myself to relax into his hold.
The island hums around us, seductive and watching, and I realize it’s already doing what it was designed to do—stripping him bare in ways his charm could never cover.
Lanterns float over the uneven terrain, sand shifting beneath my sandals as we make our way toward what appears to be a beach club that starts on the sand and then continues out until it hovers over the water.
The front wall of the club is open, letting people easily filter off the dance floor and into the ocean air without the hassle of a door.
An elven bartender stands behind the teak bar within, shaking a martini with flair and a flirtatious smile.
Long banquet tables sit directly on the sand, decorated with muslin cloth and low, flickering candles.
“Do you think I’m underdressed?” Riven has a smile playing on his lips because he doesn’t actually care.
I pull back, my eyes passing over him from leather sandals to crisp shorts that sit above his knees and show off the beginning of the tattoos that cover most of his thighs, to the open floral shirt that allows his gold chain and smattering of chest hair to peek out.
“No,” I rasp, “you’re fine.” Me, on the other hand…
not so sure. I’d dressed well today, in a matching set of cream-colored, flowy linens.
The slightly oversized shirt is half tucked into the front of the wide-leg pants.
I’d even curled my hair and used my magic to give myself a sun-kissed glow and a few freckles on the bridge of my nose, but it doesn’t matter.
The best outfit in the world couldn’t hide how nervous I am.
I know Riven can feel it, the slight tremor in my hands, just like he can hear the slightest tremble in my voice.
One month.
I can do this.
I exhale slowly, holding my head high as if confidence is the problem and not years of emotional trauma at the Moirai’s hands.
Music hums low and rhythmically, magic threading every note as the promise of approaching moonlight bids the sun goodbye over the sea. The beauty of it, the perfection, is almost disorienting. Lulling my nerves a little bit like the sea pulls sand from the shore.
“Where should I sit?” I ask nervously.
“With me, sweetheart. That’s where you belong.
” I nod and blow out a steadying breath.
“Milady,” Riven says against my neck, pulling out my chair at one of the dressed tables like the well-mannered gentleman his society-obsessed mother raised him to be.
He sits beside me, sideways so his legs can bracket my chair.
I watch as the swan-like paired couples sit down, one after another, in a choreography of silks and linens around us.