Chapter 12 #3
I’d suspected they might call me first. Most likely because I’m seen as the weakest, the least favored. Still, I tell myself it’s better this way. Better to face it now than stand here stewing in my doubts, measuring myself against everyone else.
My cheeks burn, and my magic stirs in protest, writhing beneath my skin. I force my legs to move, stepping forward, the weight of a thousand eyes crushing against my back.
The Sibyls’s mutilated faces turned toward me—not seeing, not hearing, only knowing.
And yet, I feel them watching. Judging.
I bite my cheek and force a slow exhale. As I reach the center, my gaze instinctively seeks out Ryker. But instead, my eyes collide with Mael’s.
His narrowed eye is locked on me, a grin on his face. I hold back a grimace. It helps to imagine slipping a touch of rot into his teeth-cleaning powder sometime soon. Just enough to yellow that smug smile.
“Raylane Troubelle,” the Sibyls’ voices ring out again. “Godbound of the Goddess of Blood and Decay, show the good people of Calcatra what you have to offer.”
My heart stutters. What do I have to offer?
My fingers twitch involuntarily, drifting to the crimson strand of hair that marks me as cursed. I catch them halfway, pressing my palms flat against my thighs.
The silence stretches, until the crowd shifts, most likely growing restless with my inaction.
“Go away!” a man’s voice cuts through the space. “We don’t care for Calista, and we don’t care for you!”
Approving laughter follows.
I lift my chin, eyes scanning the sea of faces that blur together. They want a show. They want excitement, a spectacle they can talk about for days.
But my magic is restless and dangerous. If I unleash it here, if I let them see what lurks inside me, will they see me as anything other than a monster?
And when the adrenaline fades and they are left to make their choice, what will they remember?
My pulse is a wild, frantic drum against my ribs. The weight of the crowd’s anticipation crushes me. If I stand here, frozen in silence, I will lose them. If I give them the destruction they hunger for, I will lose myself.
No. There is another way. I can’t give them the show they crave.
But I can give them something different. Something lasting.
I can give them hope.
The realization settles like a steady flame in my chest. Slow at first, flickering, but then growing, catching, spreading.
If I can’t give them magic, I will give them my voice.
Let them call it useless. Let them scoff. Let them doubt me.
And if I have to fall, at least I will not go down silent.
I inhale, peel off my gloves, and let them fall. My blackened fingers are exposed as I speak.
“You all know my name. You all know why I stand before you.” My voice is steady, but my fingers are begging to tremble at my sides. “You have heard the whispers, the rumors of my shame, of my curse. But do you know how it happened?”
I let the silence stretch. My gaze finds Ryker again and this time, I don’t look away. If he refuses to seek the truth, I’ll drag it to his feet. He doesn’t have to care. But he will hear me.
“Two weeks ago, a man took something from me,” I say louder.
A ripple moves through the crowd. Some lean in. Others recoil. Ryker blinks, his head tilts slightly. “But the Crimson Tether curse doesn’t care if I was willing or not,” I raise my voice even louder, letting conviction shape every word.
“One day, I was to be a queen. The next, I was destined for Rust Hollow, cast aside like so many women before me. Desperate, I threw myself off a temple balcony, spilled my blood, and pledged my life to a forgotten goddess. Not out of loyalty, but out of fear—fear of what awaited me. I thought, if I won these Challenges, my sins would be forgiven, the curse lifted. I thought there was still a chance…” My voice cracks, and for a moment, I can’t bear to look at Ryker so my eyes skip over the crowd.
“But now, standing before you, I realize that it’s not about me.
It’s about all of us.” I take a breath, my voice rising again.
“Every one of you knows a friend, a daughter, a mother, a sister whose life was taken by a curse she never chose. A curse forced on her, as mine was forced on me. If I become Archpriestess, I promise you this: no friend, no daughter, no mother, no sister will ever again be made to suffer for a sin that was never theirs. No life will be ruined by a man’s wandering touch.
No woman will be left to rot in Rust Hollow, forgotten, starving, waiting to die. ”
A sharp murmur rises through the crowd. Most faces twist with revulsion, scandal flickering across painted mouths and narrowed eyes.
A woman clutches her shawl tighter, lips parted in silent offense. A man turns to whisper. A cluster of courtiers shake their heads, expressions pinched with disgust.
“They did choose it!” a woman screeches. “So now they’re paying for it!”
“As you should have!” another voice snaps.
I don’t bother searching for the speakers. Instead, I keep scanning the crowd, desperate for a single face still willing to listen. Deep down, I knew most would be skeptical, hateful even, but I’d hoped for a few. Someone who, if not supportive, would at least be open enough to hear me.
I find no one. And hope bleeds out of me in slow, steady drops.
But then I see her. A young girl near the edge of the crowd, hands clasped tightly to her chest, watching me with quiet focus.
Maybe she lost a sister to Rust Hollow. Or a friend. Or maybe she’s just young enough that her heart hasn’t yet been steeped in her parents’ hatred.
So I keep speaking. To her. Because sometimes, even a single listening heart can become the crack where change begins to seep through.
My gaze lifts, drifting past the crowd to the memory of the pole outside Rust Hollow, that one reserved for the low-born cursed women. It’s not visible behind rows of buildings but etched into everyone’s memory all the same. My fingers continue shaking from the force of the truth pushing out of me.
“For those who were wronged, I will tear down that godforsaken pole with my own hands! I promise you that.”
I stand there like a focal point of anticipation and dread, aware of every confused whisper, every shuffle from the crowd that might mean some form of approval.
My magic pulses again just beneath the surface, eager for release, but I clamp down on it, forcing it into submission.
Today, I must show restraint. I must show them all that I am more than the wild, uncontrollable force they fear.
A strange, wrong stillness takes hold. The weight of the crowd’s gaze feels heavier, their voices dulling to a low murmur, as if the entire world is holding its breath. The ground beneath my feet isn’t firm anymore.
It feels softer, looser, like sand shifting beneath a rising tide.
A slow, amused chuckle cuts through the uneasy hush. “Listen to her,” a voice drawls, rich with mockery. “Making promises she can’t keep. Talking about saving the wretches of Rust Hollow like she isn’t one of them. Like she isn’t already drowning in the filth she swore to rise above.”
My stomach knots at the sound. I don’t need to turn to know who it belongs to.
The Red Hunter.
Before I can move, before I can even process the way the earth beneath me subtly gives, he steps forward.
“Tell me, sinner,” Zyrel says, his voice dripping with amusement, cruel and casual all at once, “when they look at you, do they see a savior? Or do they see the same thing I do?”
The ground trembles harder now, the rippling beneath my boots turning fluid, and my pulse slams against my ribs.
“And what’s that?” I force out, my throat dry.
His grin is a blade. “A girl already sinking.”
The ground gives way. Stone granulates beneath my feet, crumbling into shifting sand.
A sharp gasp catches in my throat as I stumble, my balance yanked from beneath me. I feel myself plummet into the earth, my scream swallowed by the sudden rush of grainy sand.
I claw at the edges, but they crumble between my fingers. And within seconds, I’m waist deep, my mind racing.
A massive black snout of his dragon snorts in my face, its breath hot and foul enough to make my eyes sting.
The Red Hunter stands over me, his expression a mask of satisfaction.
“A sinner like this whoring worm could never win,” he sneers, dissolving the edge of the pit as soon as I try to pull myself up from a hole in the earth he created with his matter-shifting magic.
His voice is louder now, booming across the plaza as he lifts an iron-clad glove. “When I win,” he bellows, “the scum of Rust Hollow will work for the kingdom, repenting for their sins. They’ll be fitted with gauntlets and serve you without cost for the rest of their lives.”
Slaves.
He is going to make them slaves like during the last Thul'Barak’s reign.
My blood boils as he proceeds to list all the ways free labor would improve people’s lives and, most importantly, aid with the impending war with Lothagrom, a forever-expanding empire to the east.
I lunge forward, shoving both hands against the edge, my arms burning as I try to pull myself free. But the ground betrays me. Sand liquefies into sludge under my palms, dissolving beneath my grip.
I slip deeper, my stomach lurching as the earth engulfs me again.
The pull is relentless. The more I struggle, the tighter it grips me.
The grainy mass presses in from all sides.
I’m chest-deep in the sucking earth. There are no steps to grab.
Every frantic shove of my arms only makes the muck pull higher, tugging at my clothes.
My muscles burn from the effort to lift myself, lungs burning as the weight tightens across my chest.
Above me, the crowd’s laughter swells, the sound is thick with amusement. Their entertainment. My misery.
My hands claw at the surface, fingers scrabbling for anything solid and coming away with gritty mud. There’s no purchase, only more slurp and give, and the humiliation bites as sharp as the exhaustion.