Chapter 12 #2
The Duchess’s lips are pinched in disapproval, her off white gown pooling around her like a puddle of milk curdling in the heat. Renholm stands beside her, his angular face unreadable, his cold blue eyes scanning Seraphina the way one might evaluate an ill-trained servant rather than a daughter.
And Seraphina… she looks dazzling, almost unnaturally so. Her high ponytail gleams like spun silver, her green eyes sharp with a too-perfect intensity. The soft fabric of her fitted tunic clings to her in a way that highlights the sculpted grace of her athletic frame.
Even standing still, she radiates strength and confidence. She looks like a Champion.
For a second, the thought cuts through me that if anyone deserves to win, it’s her. She has the look of it, the beauty, the presence, the effortless poise.
“And your eyebrows,” the Duke says. “The red is starting to show. Are you trying to make a spectacle of yourself at the Spectra Judicium? When was the last time you dyed them?”
“Two days ago,” she replies, evenly. “It must have smudged when I washed my face. I’ll be more careful.”
Red eyebrows? They look dark brown to me.
But if they truly are red—the color her natural hair would have been, had it not been turned white by the curse—then Seraphina carries an unfortunate resemblance to the Crimson Tether itself. And that, judging by her father’s scathing glare, is a reminder her family refuses to tolerate.
“Then stop washing,” Renholm snaps. “Wipe yourself as we did when you were a child. No one must ever see the filthy color you were born with.”
I blink—once in shock, twice in awe, and finally, in quiet disgust.
Seraphina doesn’t reply. Her parents’ barbs must be constant, ones she seems to have long since learned to weather in silence.
It’s hard to watch. It feels too familiar.
Their words remind me much of my father, of the way he’s spoken to me so many times. Though talking like that had been the least of his cruelties. My fingers drift unconsciously to the scar splitting my left eyebrow like they always do when I think of him, a phantom ache tingling beneath my touch.
Then, the dragon snaps its head backward, as if it heard my movement.
Two slitted yellow eyes catch mine through the shadowed space between the pillars, unblinking and far too aware.
Instinct finally takes over and I stumble back from the column, putting distance between us, unwilling to wait and find out what happens if the dragon decides to expose me.
The noise of the crowd swallows me whole again as I weave my way toward the guards. They exchange low mutters about me entering from the wrong side, but none step forward to stop me. One of the Goldspears gives me a long, assessing look before finally shifting aside.
I let out a quiet, shaky breath and slip past him into the line of Champions, keeping my head low as I make for the far end, the spot furthest from Zyrel.
The nobles of Calcatra watch from their tiered seats, faces lit with anticipation. But many expressions shift the moment they see me, twisting into quiet hate.
I recognize it. Many lost loved ones when Decay first flared through me.
Daphne, the daughter of a prominent house, stares daggers in particular.
Her esteemed fiancé—an older, wealthy duke—was among the victims of my magic, leaving her without the prosperous marriage that would have elevated her family’s name.
She, along with a few others, whisper behind feathery fans, their eyes locked on me.
I look away.
Each noble in the audience is drunk on the illusion that they matter more tonight than they ever have.
And perhaps they do. I see the calculation in their eyes.
For once, their opinions carry real weight.
Their prayers are the fuel that powers each Champion, the thread that tethers us to divine magic.
Once the head of a great house casts their loyalty by choosing a god or goddess, the lesser houses will follow like moths, eager to show unity, eager not to be left behind. That’s the way it works. Influence trickles down, and with it, belief.
So impressing these people tonight could rewrite everything for all of us.
Without their prayers, I’ll walk into the next challenge exposed, my magic thinned to a whisper compared to the other Champions. Strangely, the thought sits easy, like some part of me has been waiting to accept it. And maybe that’s for the best.
If what happened in the meadow was only a sliver of what could live inside me… would I even dare unleash more of it? Even if it meant winning?
My shoulders sag beneath the question’s weight.
This is the moment the kingdom will decide whether I am a mistake to be forgotten or something worthy enough to follow. And if I fail to sway them, I won’t just be ignored.
I’ll be erased.
A swell of noise from the crowd yanks me back to the moment.
Seraphina enters with her dragon, and I force myself not to look at either of them as the Sibyls gesture for us to step forward and face the crowd.
I move up to stand level with the other Champions, each flanked by their Godbeasts. All but me.
I stand alone, because my Godbeast is still missing.
He told me I could summon him through the ring on my finger, that he’d come if I needed him. But some stubborn, prideful part of me refuses to stoop so low as to beg him to do the one thing he was meant to do: stand beside me.
I let my gaze drift over the masses. The common folk press against the line of guards, while the nobles lounge on raised platforms, silk awnings casting them in cool shadow.
Above, figures crowd the windows of the surrounding buildings, eyes trained downward, eager to witness our fate.
The Divinity Gazes, suspended from balconies and rooftops, flicker faintly, their shifting reflections capturing the sea of faces and the line of Champions.
Beyond this square, thousands more are watching through these mirrors, their judgment just as important as those gathered here.
I don’t see Eva, but I feel her presence in the crowd. She is always there, even when unseen. And Peonica... I’d bet she’s here too, tucked somewhere past the lines of the gilded guards.
The noise, the lights, the eyes—all of it presses in. I force myself to breathe, but fear gnaws at my insides when a sudden silence cuts through the air.
I inhale, my thoughts scattering as the shift in tension ripples through the crowd. The royal party has arrived. The hush is reverent, almost trembling. And then, he steps onto the dais.
Ryker, clad in white and gold as always.
His presence is enough to draw everyone’s attention and he commands the moment effortlessly. His golden hair catches the dying light.
He’s the same man I saw two weeks ago, steady on the surface, but something hollow moves beneath it. He looks worn thin, held together by will alone. When his gaze finds me, the cold in it goes straight through.
If I were stronger, I’d meet his eyes and hold them. But I’m not. So I look away before he can see the burn gathering behind my eyes. The small distance between us might as well be a chasm.
I swallow, my throat dry. My hands won’t still at my sides, guilt and regret tightening in my chest. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. I should’ve been beside him, not standing here under his judgment.
But here I am, alone. And maybe that’s all I’ve ever been. The thought hollows me out, makes me wish I could melt into the crowd and be unseen.
But, of course, I can’t. And then, as if the gods themselves have heard my silent plea and decided to make a mockery of it—
Mael appears.
He moves with the same quiet grace that’s always seemed effortless to him.
His brown hair falls in perfect waves over his shoulders, but there is something new.
An eyepatch now hides his left eye, and his remaining dark gaze sweeps the crowd, its sharpness softened by the careful tilt of his practiced smile.
I wonder what happened to him, what misfortune claimed his eye. Whatever it was, he deserves it, a petty voice hisses at the back of my mind.
My eyes find Ryker again. I expect irritation, or at least distance, but his face gives me nothing. No tension, no disgust, no shadow of what’s come between them. And when Mael claps his shoulder, all warmth and ease, heat flares sharp in my chest.
My fists curl at my sides. I glare at the two of them.
Is that it? Two weeks and a mysterious accident with his eye is all it took for Ryker to forgive Mael?
He didn’t even let me speak. Didn’t ask for my side of the story. My teeth grind together so tightly I wouldn’t be surprised if Alaric, standing silently beside me, can hear it.
I want to walk straight across the plaza and slap the smug tilt off Mael’s mouth. But the crowd is watching.
The Divinity Gazes shimmer from every corner and I make the mistake of looking up.
The image of me in one of the Divinity Gazes is uncomfortably clear.
My white hair spills loose around my shoulders, but the red streak, my curse, burns like a bleeding wound against it.
My wide eyes make me look younger, exposed, the nervous tension in my stance betraying every ounce of fear I want to hide.
The kingdom sees me like this. They see my uncertainty, my shame. My throat tightens, heat crawling up my neck.
Then, the Sibyls speak.
“Welcome, the good people of Calcatra,” the seven voices intone, their eerie unison quenching all other sounds.
They stand in perfect formation in front of us, their thin, bloodless lips, moving in flawless synchrony.
“Tonight, you meet your Champions, witness their magic, and hear their promises. They stand before you, vying to be your next Archpriest or Archpriestess. It is you, with your prayers, who will determine their power in the Challenges ahead. So choose wisely.”
Then, as if pulled by unseen strings, the Sibyls raise their arms. And point at me.
A hush ripples through the crowd and my stomach drops.