Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
My neck aches from the effort of keeping my chin level, my spine straight, and my shoulders back.
The blustering predawn air feels thick with the unknown.
It hums with expectation as eyes track our procession toward the Divine Commons.
Much of yesterday’s snow melted into slush, and I’ve never been more grateful for my heavy leather boots.
No fancy slippers in this climate. At least not outdoors.
Beside me, Sterling marches with the measured pace of a soldier, but his attention keeps drifting to every fountain, every well, every frozen body of water we pass. It’s not like him.
Not during something this important.
And that tiny deviation from his usual focus gnaws at my already frayed nerves.
I try to match Queen Maeve’s graceful stride, the way she seems to glide rather than walk, feet barely disturbing the ancient stones beneath us. These pathways have been worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims’ feet, and now they bear the weight of four kingdoms’ diplomats and royals.
I should be honored. Instead, I feel like an imposter. A Tirenese noble child raised in Aclaris who’s somehow become Tirene’s queen.
The nobles trail behind us in their finery, their faces carefully arranged into political masks. We encounter citizens along the route with far more honest expressions. Some hopeful, some suspicious, many simply afraid.
Most of all, I keep an eye on Sterling, on the way his dark eyes track to yet another decorative fountain.
When his gaze briefly meets mine, I raise my eyebrows in silent question. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. The small gesture promises that he’ll tell me later.
We proceed through the enormous dome of a greenhouse and a temple garden that should be lush with pre-harvest offerings but instead stands withered and neglected. The soil is cracked, the plants shriveled. No one tends the sacred spaces anymore. This is the third empty garden we’ve seen.
The bare fish markets come next, stalls swept clean of their usual morning catch.
Even the weather-shrines stand abandoned, their offerings of colored glass and polished stones scattered by the wind, or perhaps by desperate hands.
Trade caravan wagons cluster together in defensive circles rather than spreading out to display their wares.
Unable to contain my growing unease, I finally turn to Queen Maeve. A ruby-studded clasp sweeps her dark hair off her face. “Why do you think this is all happening?”
For the first time since we began our procession, the queen’s composure cracks. She doesn’t quite meet my eye, her obsidian gaze floating somewhere over my shoulder. “The loss of magic has scared people. They cluster in small groups to hide and build defenses.”
Fear sounds like an understatement. They’re acting like cornered prey. Boxing themselves in. This creeping dread has reshaped an entire kingdom’s behavior. Tír Ríoga isn’t just troubled.
It’s terrified.
Is this my fault?
This is what we’d helped create. What I’d caused by destroying Narc’s bones. The act meant to free us from tyranny has instead unleashed a different kind of oppression. One born of uncertainty and powerlessness.
This is why Maeve won’t meet my eye.
Never in my life have I worried about not having magic.
My magic has always been too strong. As a Tirenese child raised by Aclarians, my first accidental attempts at using my fire element were wild and uncontrolled.
For most of my life, my mother forced me to consume tablets that weakened and managed my power.
Now these people have been stripped bare of their abilities. They’re having to relearn life without the magic they relied upon.
We climb higher, and the Divine Commons finally comes into view, rising atop Emraldae Keep’s highest hill.
The enormous amphitheater’s black stone gleams in the morning light, the unity of its design now feeling like a hollow promise.
Massive stairs sweep up in three curved sections, each representing one of the great visiting kingdoms and meeting at a columned entrance hall.
“It’s stunning.” Sterling’s voice is laced with awe.
Maeve accepts the compliment with a dip of her chin.
“This was built two centuries ago when Tír Ríoga positioned itself as neutral ground. Our ancestors wanted to promote religious harmony.” She sweeps her arm toward the structure, jangling the gold bangles on her wrist. “All the gods honored in one place.”
King Mihel nods, love and respect for his wife shining in his eyes.
The queen is right. As we approach, I can see how the architecture pays homage to the pantheon.
Stone and marble pillars for Hallr, the God of Stone and Mountains.
Constellation markings on the archways for Zeru, who governs the stars and heavens.
Fountains flow in graceful arcs to honor Rivlan, God of Water.
Neglected gardens that once showcased flowers and fruits for Viridian’s climb both horizontal and vertical surfaces.
We begin ascending the wide, curving staircases, then we pass through a high-ceilinged entrance hall. The space should feel sacred, solemn. Instead, it harbors the breathless tension of a room where something valuable has been stolen, but no one wants to acknowledge the theft.
As we near the heart of the complex—the central, open-aired stadium—a strange glimmer catches my eye.
Crystalline growths, strange and intricate formations that glimmer with an almost grotesque beauty, creep up the walls and pillars. Most people breeze past without noticing. Or perhaps they’re choosing not to.
My stomach clenches into a knot. The formations are identical to those from the wedding fountain in Tirene.
Sterling picks up on my hesitation and tracks my gaze. His body goes rigid beside me. “Those fucking things again.”
I grip his arm tighter than I intend. “What are they?”
The shimmering structures crawl up the shrine wall like frozen lightning, beautiful and wrong at the same time.
Before Sterling can answer, we’re swept into the vast amphitheater ahead of the crowd of citizens.
The curved tiers of seating already hold thousands. Smaller worship spaces appear between sections, each one dedicated to different gods. The central platform gleams with ritual objects, censers for incense, bowls of sacred water, ceremonial daggers, and offerings of grain and wine.
For a fleeting moment, as we take our positions, hope flickers.
The high priestess comes forward, her dark purple robes swirling with embroidered symbols of unity. Her voice rings out across the amphitheater, calling for peace, for cooperation, for a return to harmony between the kingdoms.
I almost let myself believe this could work.
Then I spot the cave cats lurking in the shadows of the temple, their emerald eyes glinting in the light. They tend to shun cities, so their presence likely indicates that at least one god retains power in this domain.
In light of that, I’d expect them to act like ceremonial guardians. Instead, they pace and prowl around the perimeter, their black coats gleaming, their eyes watchful. One snarls, showing glinting white teeth, and the priestess falters in her invocation.
The flames at Ziva’s shrine flare, shooting high into the air. They turn black, belching smoke that reeks of sulfur and rot.
There’s a tug in my chest, a familiar heat that tells me my fire magic is responding to something. But I can’t control this. This isn’t my fire.
“Sterling, something’s wrong.”
He’s already tensed beside me, one hand resting on the sword at his hip. “Stay close.”
Around us, fountains begin to crystallize. The clear water hardens into jagged formations that crack and split and spit pellets across the arena. People yelp as the shards strike them, their tiny wounds beading with blood.
Panic ripples through the crowd.
People begin to back away and push against each other. Children cry. The priestess raises her hands, calling for calm, but the compounding chaos drowns out her voice.
From the edges of the amphitheater, figures in dark cloaks emerge. Each bears a star-mark on their hand, a constellation image that snakes up their wrists and disappears beneath billowing sleeves.
The Devoted.
Worshippers of Zeru who’ve weaponized their faith.
One points directly at me, then at Sterling. “See what happens when the magic-killers dare participate in sacred rites?”
The accusation acts like a slap to the face. Magic-killers. Is everyone outside of Tirene calling us that now?
“Better magic-free than god-stuffed!” a woman in the crowd yells back.
I’ve never been so glad to hear someone shout in my life. It seems not everyone blames us.
A young man with cropped black hair glares in the direction of the Devoted. “Go crawl back to your shrine!”
The tension snaps.
Arguments break out across the amphitheater, which quickly escalate to shoving matches. The guards swoop in, attempting to separate people, but they’re overwhelmed by the sheer numbers.
The Devoted spread through the crowd like ink in water, their accusations becoming louder and more specific.
“They burned the sacred plants!”
“They poisoned the magic!”
“The false queen brought this curse upon us all!”
I stand frozen as the careful diplomatic event we’d agreed to participate in crumbles into shambles.
A rock sails through the air, missing my head by mere inches.
I flinch, and in an instant, Sterling is stepping in front of me, putting his body between mine and the growing mob.
“We need to move.” He scans the area for an escape route. “Now.”
But the crowd surges like a tide, cutting off our retreat.
I reach for my fire magic and feel it stir beneath my skin, hot and ready. If I have to defend us, I will. But using magic in this already volatile situation might only confirm their suspicions.