Chapter 12
The open carriage jolts, its wheels crunching over the gravel road as I grip the edge of the seat to steady myself. It’s been hours since Kaelzar abandoned me, but no matter how long I wanted to wait for him, the Spectra Judicium wasn’t going to wait for me.
So I forced myself to change into a white tunic cinched with a leather corset and brown training pants, the kind Seraphina often wears on her outings, paired with gloves, and dragged myself into the carriage.
Now, as the forest road stretches ahead, I try to steady my breathing, but the memory of the meadow clings stubbornly to my mind—the spreading rot, the hollow stillness it left behind. I close my eyes and let the wind cradle my face, as if the air itself could wash away what I did there.
My magic, coiled quietly around my core once more, hums with satisfaction, its release leaving behind a languid energy.
For now, it recedes, and something new sits behind it: Blood magic, warm and full where there was nothing before.
Whatever creatures Decay consumed have been transmuted into this branch of my power.
I try not to think of the rabbit that fled only minutes before my magic escaped, or the other animals from that ruined meadow.
And it’s unsettlingly easier than it should be, to push the thought of their deaths aside when I never saw their faces. As if the absence of eyes, of witnessing their fear in those final moments, makes the guilt quieter. Almost bearable.
Almost.
I should be relieved that I am no longer at Decay’s mercy, but instead, a panicked unease settles over me.
The carriage jolts again, and I snap my eyes open.
This driver is young, maybe a year or two younger than me, and clearly new to his post. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder, stealing quick looks at me with a mix of curiosity and unease.
It’s a miracle we haven’t collided with a cart of turnips, given how often he forgets to watch the road.
The third time he glances back, something about him snags in my mind. The slope of his shoulders. The nervous set of his mouth. Familiar. And then he turns fully.
“It was admirable, what you did,” he says, voice tentative but sincere. “When we stopped on the way to the lashing. None of the ladies ever tries to talk back to their duenna like that. But you… you did.”
The memory comes rushing in—Peonica’s reprimand, the blooming bones, my sudden need to do something defiant. He was there. My driver that day, too. The first witness to my breaking point.
I let out a huff of a laugh. “Little good it did me.” I tap a gloved finger to the red thread woven through my white hair.
Behind us, the sound of hooves draws closer.
Ryker’s guards trail on horseback, their stone armor clinking softly. They say nothing, but I feel the weight of their presence, close and watchful, with every turn of the wheels. Every step I take is no longer my own.
“Thank you for taking me,” I say, offering a gracious smile now that I no longer resemble a wild beast, barking orders with desperate eyes as I had when I stormed into the stables.
“It’s not like I had a choice,” he mutters.
My eyebrows arch at his insolence, expecting a hurried apology.
None comes. Instead, he shrugs, his back still to me, and continues, unbothered. “At least I’ll have a story to tell my friends. You won’t rot me, will you?”
I blink, thrown by the bluntness of the question. “No,” I say after a beat. “I will not.”
“Good. Because I really don’t have time for that,” he says, nudging his horses as we round a corner. “I’m almost done saving up for my adventure, you know. It’s going to be epic.”
There’s something about the conviction in his voice that makes me ask the question. “What adventure?”
He glances back with a grin, eyes bright. “I’m going to hunt for a dragon egg.”
Of all the answers I might have expected, that wasn’t one of them.
But the sheer earnestness of it snaps me out of the quiet desperation that’s been creeping closer with every passing minute.
“You know where to find them?” I ask, genuine curiosity slipping into my voice, as if for a heartbeat I almost believe such a thing might still be possible.
“Not yet.” He gives me a mock-serious look. “But I will.”
“I thought dragons stopped laying eggs before the Skyburn War,” I say. “The last wild one hatched decades before it began.”
He laughs under his breath. “That’s what they say. But if there were no eggs left, there’d be no White Death Covenant, right?”
I haven’t heard that in years. My mother used to tell me stories of them when I was little—masked riders cloaked in white, who stole away the cursed women before the Chastity Wardens could.
Some said they were a cult of zealots who worshipped dragons.
Others claimed they were the only heroes brave enough to save those women from the lash.
Back then, I never knew which version to believe. I only remember the way my mother’s voice would soften when she said their name. Like she hoped they were real.
I glance at the boy, curious. “You believe in them?”
“Of course I do,” he says. “I saw them years ago. They took a woman right after the lashing, right out from under the Butcher’s nose.”
The name jolts through me. The Butcher: the most notorious Chastity Warden in Viele’s history. He is the kind of man who lashed cursed women until the stones ran red.
His voice carries on. “I would’ve helped her myself, but I was too little. I just brought her water before they came.”
He says it so lightly, as if the memory hasn’t marked him, as if the horror of it all never touched him. I can’t tell whether to envy him or pity him for that kind of innocence.
The carriage comes to a halt, cutting off my thoughts. The Grand Plaza stretches before us in a wide sweep of pale stone, already crowded with people pressing in from every side. Guards patrol the perimeter, shouting orders and pushing back the crowd.
The sight sends a shiver through me, stirring the anxiety I’d almost managed to forget.
“What’s your name?” I ask quietly.
“Levi.”
“Levi,” I say, dropping a few coins into his hand, “you’re very brave. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
When I push the carriage door open, no one steps forward to help me, just as I expected.
I may be a Champion, but I am also Crimson Tether cursed.
No one in their right mind would dare touch me now.
So I climb down on my own. The remainder of whatever lightness Levi’s chatter offered dissolves the moment my boots meet the stone.
“You’re not so scary, you know,” Levi calls after me with a grin. “I think Calista will be my goddess of choice for the Trial.”
I can’t help but smile back, though he’s already turned to tend his horse. “One worshiper down,” I murmur under my breath, “thousands to go.”
Rows of city guards and Goldspears ring the vast open space, their armor flashing beneath the sun as they shove the crowd back with the butts of their spears. Beyond them, I catch glimpses of raised benches where nobles sit fanning themselves.
The air hums with cheers, laughter, and the metallic clank of armor against stone. I spot the Sibyls in dark robes gathered near the far edge of the plaza. Zyrel and his Godbeast are already in position.
All attention is now fixed on another arrival, Alaric and his dragon. Its shadow sweeps across the ground, and a collective gasp ripples through the masses. The crowd surges forward to take a better look, only to be forced back again.
It’s the perfect distraction.
With no Godbeast of my own to command attention, I move quietly, slipping from the edge of the onlookers into the sea of commoners. The thought of stepping through the entrance alone, of every gaze turning to the Champion without her Godbeast, rubs raw against whatever pride I have left.
Better to slip in unnoticed. Surely the guards will recognize me and let me through their line, closer to the section reserved for Champions.
Most don’t notice me, but those who do edge away, parting in uneasy silence. The closer I get to the center, the thicker the press of bodies becomes—shoulders jostling mine, the air heavy with heat, perfumes and dust. I can barely see past the rows of people now.
I push forward until the crowd grows too dense to pass.
To my left, a small ceremonial arch rises from the edge of the square, a half-circle of carved pillars. The crowd doesn’t gather there because the view must be poor, blocked by the columns themselves. That stretch of stone lies mostly deserted, tucked in shadow.
I slip out of the crush and circle toward the shaded side of the arch, grateful for the reprieve.
The arch swallows the sound, dulling the crowd to a low pulse. For a moment, it’s just the hush of stone and my own breath. That’s when I hear voices. Low, close, and threaded with tension.
I stop. One of them is familiar. Seraphina.
A ridiculous, almost childish impulse to hide grips me. I press myself against the stone, mortified by the thought of being caught sneaking around like this. As if that cat-eyed girl would immediately know why I’m not walking where the rest of them do.
“And your posture, Seraphina, is appalling. Were you raised in a stable?” a female’s cool voice says.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Seraphina replies in a submissive tone I never thought her capable of.
The sound of it alone draws me forward before I can stop myself. I edge closer and peer around the column. Standing with Seraphina, poised like statues, are Duke Renholm and Duchess Ana. Her parents. They’re half-hidden behind the arch’s pillars, which explains why I hadn’t seen them sooner.
When I shift for a clearer view, the rest of the scene comes into focus.
A hulking green dragon sits a few paces in front of them, facing their direction. It’s settled neatly on its haunches, twisted wings tucked close to its sides, its head tilting from side to side with an almost endearing patience.