Chapter Fourteen
The mortal custom of celebrating the change of seasons will always be strange. I don’t quite understand the reason to celebrate, and aside from tying each season to a particular god or goddess, no one has been able to tell me why these celebrations take place.
In the hells, celebrations serve a purpose. The Dark Hunt reduces the number of Unhoused demons, the Abyssal grants Houses the chance to showcase their strength, and The Reaping collects the overflow of errant souls left in the veil.
There’s always a reason.
And almost always they’re practical.
But here, when the turn of the season arrives, Ollora grows to bursting with people who gather for the sake of gathering. Merchants, wandering minstrels and musicians, innate painters, songstresses and storytellers—they all make themselves known.
I saw it during the summer solstice celebration. At least then I observed from the safety of the rooftops with Eve for company. The streets were far too crowded to consider traversing them. The rooftops proved to be a much faster avenue for travel, and the views unlike any other.
Again, the streets are flooded with people.
Whether Olloran or visitors from elsewhere, they bustle and chitter, going about their lives and enjoying the festival. With games and dancing, and food and music and drinks flowing freely, these people create a shifting sea of colors.
They’re garbed in robes, cloaks, and skirts in bold tones like those found in the changing leaves. Deep crimsons, vivid oranges, forest browns and a plethora of autumnal colors that fall between. Paired with bright eyes and broad smiles everywhere I look, it makes for quite the sight.
Ryc gifted me an eye-catching, silk-lined woolen cloak in a deep scarlet and at first, I was confused by it. His insistence I wear it today didn’t help matters.
Now it makes sense.
Ollorans celebrate the equinox by wearing the colors of autumn.
He dons the same and together we move through the streets headed toward the square of the South Ward.
Along with warm laughter, the joyful sound of stringed instruments and singing floats through despite the chill breeze and grayed sky.
Dark clouds threaten rain, but the warning goes largely ignored.
The biggest difference between the autumnal equinox and the summer solstice lies outside the way people are dressed, the weather, the music, or even the kind of food being served—which all smells tantalizing. It’s that Ryc walks beside me without the shrouding cover of a drawn hood.
And because of that, too many eyes swing in our direction and linger.
Thankfully, no one dares approach.
Instead they stare, surprised yet delighted smiles spreading on their faces. Excited chatter sweeps through portions of the crowd. I’m convinced they keep a respectful distance because of Eve and Cyran’s intimidating presence behind us.
Drawing closer to the South Ward square, the number of people in the streets grows outlandish.
More people means more eyes, and of course, more of those eyes start to take notice of their Sovereign King walking among them.
We’ve barely stepped into the district when the first praising shouts ring through the air.
“May your happiness be our happiness!”
“Erus will stand whole once again!”
Their kind sentiments don’t sound hollow.
They sound genuine, and such generosity is strange to hear in large crowds.
I find myself fighting the urge to slip into the shadows as Ryc, the graceful, practiced creature he is, accepts the praise with a soft smile.
He gives the occasional wave or acknowledging nod, and his people watch him with a reverence I don’t quite understand.
It’s so different from the hells.
There’s no trace of contempt or fear in their faces.
And he’s so different from the Sovereign King I saw beside Tanila months ago. No longer a darkened storm cloud, instead, a bright and shining smile upon his face.
Lowering my stare to my feet as we walk, my grip on Ryc’s bicep tightens. There might not be fear among them, but there’s certainly fear in me.
Fear I’ll be recognized.
Fear they’ll learn whose daughter I am.
Fear I’ll be met with the same vitriolic rhetoric mortals use when standing before a demon.
And fear Ryc will be forced to defend me from his own people.
Ryc places a hand over mine, peering down at me.
Without the ability to raise a mental ward, he’s spent these last few months feeling everything I feel through our bond. I’ve no doubt he feels my fear now.
“Is this too much?” he asks, genuine concern sharpening his features.
“No,” I answer, daring to lift my chin to meet his gilded gaze. It’s not entirely the truth, but it’s what I’m willing to give. “Crowds set me at unease. I am the observer, not the observed.”
Attention in the hells can be damning.
It’s safer to go unnoticed.
He gives me a heart-melting smile. “You’re safe here,” he says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “Our people are simply curious. Seeing us gives them hope. They want to be happy for us. Let them.”
Our people.
The words ring strangely in my ears.
“I’d be willing to wager you saved more than one of them,” he adds, his voice low.
My eyes race upward, taking in the crowd ahead. More than a few faces peer in our direction. It’s entirely possible Ryc is right. But I know better than to believe I’m any shade of savior.
What I did, I did for me.
The fact others benefited is nothing more than an aside.
“Let’s hope they’ve learned to avoid bartering with their souls,” I say and Ryc nods.
“Gods bless our king of light!” another voice from the crowd rings out.
“King of light?” I repeat, giving him a confused look. “Is your innate that notable?”
Light wielders aren’t rare, but they’re not exactly common either.
“I am the first light wielder in a long line of shadow wielders,” he answers.
An innate inherited from Gaia no doubt.
“Thalion?” I ask, curious.
“Shadows,” Ryc replies. “Forfeited.”
Forfeited for hellfire.
Not an offer I would ever take.
Even if Vaelyn were to appear before me this instant and offer to return my shadows should I sign a contract, I wouldn’t. I have never and will never again belong to the hells.
“Your people weren’t upset with you being different?”
“Of course not,” Ryc laughs. “Granted, after centuries of Thalion, I think Erus would have welcomed a demon in his stead with open arms.”
“You make it sound like he was awful,” I say, my confusion etching itself onto my face.
Ryc purses his lips, mulling over how to respond.
“He grew worse over time,” Ryc says through our bond. “The longer his contract remained, the stronger Netharis’ influence became.”
Not unusual.
In fact, quite the expected trajectory for those who sign with Netharis. A slim few prove capable of withstanding the urges Netharis imposes.
“How did he hide that from the council?” A vivid goldenrod hood catches my eye in the crowd before it vanishes in the moving sea.
“It wasn’t without help. For the last five decades of his rule, Lilith led Erus,” Ryc answers. “She acted on his behalf, claiming him ill. I kept him alive, kept the Death Bringers at bay.”
My eyes widen. “There were others? Other Death Bringers who came for Thalion?”
Thalion’s name appeared on my siblings’ reaping lists?
“Several over the last few years of his life,” Ryc says, flashing me a smile. “None capable of stopping me.”
I would laugh at his confidence were it not truth.
“When the Dividing War broke out, Thalion insisted on fighting alongside his men.” He gives my hand a small squeeze. “And we both know how that ended.”
Indeed.
I was sent to collect.
And I met the very fae beside me.
“Part of me believes Netharis knew,” he continues. “He knew what we were to one another. He knew I wouldn’t stand against you.”
“He wanted to keep me in the hells. If he knew, he would have found a way to end you,” I counter, shaking my head.
Defending Netharis, to Ryc of all people, sits heavily on my chest. It’s not something I would have seen myself doing in a thousand years.
“Perhaps he knew he couldn’t.”
My eyes swing to his. “Your confidence is truly astounding.” I laugh and he smiles.
“You’re just learning this?” Eve quips from behind and I peer over my shoulder.
I’m met with an arched brow and ice blue eyes. She walks beside Cyran, dressed in her usual black leathers, bandolier of knives strapped across her chest. Cyran provides quite the contrast in his gleaming silver armor. Both wear the same crimson cloaks as Ryc and I.
“It grows more evident by the day,” I tease and Ryc scoffs as Eve laughs.
“Not much farther now,” Ryc says, drawing my attention forward. “Are you ready, little love?”
Bracing myself for all nature of possible surprises, we round a bend in the street and the size of the crowd swells.
People everywhere.
Flowing in and out of the square at the end of the street—many forced to push through. Both Eve and Cyran step around us and quicken their pace to walk a few steps ahead, parting the crowd.
People stand in much too chatty lines waiting for their turn to purchase goods, food, or drink. Gathered in groups and gaggles before merchant stalls, their voices blend together to create a persistent din.
It wasn’t overwhelming before, but it is now.
Through the pressing mass, near the center of the square, there’s a bit more space—because dozens of pairs dance.
It’s a captivating sight, the synchronized movements, the twirling and swirling cloaks and colors.
And it holds the same kind of unbridled and unashamed joy as the night of my induction into Celesta’s service.
But that had been an entire world tucked away, hidden within Ollora. It’s one that’ll never be seen again, and a strange touch of mourning settles against my heart at the thought.
“Dance with me,” Ryc says as he slips his arm from my grasp to take my hand.
“Ryc, I…” I stammer, struggling to find an excuse. Or lie.