Chapter 13 #2
Despite the distance, I still feel him, as if his gaze alone can reach across the space and wrap around my throat. The urge to glance back is strong. I resist.
“A bowl of water,” I say. “Put it outside next to the horses’ stall.”
“Ouch,” Micheline says, smirking. “That bad?”
I roll my eyes and take another sip of tart wine. “I wish I got a Godbeast that listens and doesn’t talk back,” I whine, dropping my forehead onto the bar surface.
“Instead, you got a handsome, mysterious, brooding mountain of muscle that commands shadows with a habit for dramatic entrances during the most dire times,” Micheline says, pouring herself a glass of whiskey. “What an awful exchange.”
My head jerks up, but before I can argue how horrible Kaelzar really is, Micheline raises her glass.
“To your victory, Raylane!” she shouts so loudly that many heads turn toward us. “You’re our ray of light! So we drink to your vows.”
The music stops. The clamor ceases. I whirl around, bewildered, only to see dozens of glasses raised in the air. It’s a shift I hadn’t expected.
“To Calcatra’s future you promised us all,” Micheline continues.
I brace for the worst—for resentment, for skepticism, the moment the illusion of their hope shatters just like it did during the Spectra Judicium. But it doesn’t. Instead, they call out.
“To the future!”
“To the future!”
“To our ray of light!”
Voices ring out, not in eerie unison like the Sibyls’ but lively, filled with passion, hope, and something dangerously close to reverence. A few patrons slam their coins on the bar, offering to pay for my next drink, for my meal.
I lift my glass sheepishly, as my pulse stutters, my grip tightening around the glass as an old instinct kicks in: withdraw, fade into the background, don’t make yourself a target.
I blink rapidly against the sting in my eyes and quickly turn away, hunching over my drink as if that might make me smaller, might help me disappear before they realize I don’t deserve their faith.
But then… I hesitate.
Their cheers are full of something I never expected: warmth. Their eyes hold no fear, no suspicion, no disdain. Instead, they celebrate me. And I dare to hope they might even pray to Calista.
The music resumes, and the thumping of feet behind me tells me that most of the patrons have returned to dancing, moving in time with the fast-paced melody. I finish my glass and put it down, welcoming the warmth loosening my limbs.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. I tap a finger against the rim of my glass, grasping for something else to latch onto.
Then, finally, I find it. “If I don’t come back, will you watch over Peonica?”
Micheline chuckles. “That girl doesn’t need a babysitter.
She’s a force all on her own.” She leans in.
“Do you know why she isn’t here? She pickpocketed so much coin off the noblemen during the event I had to get her a carriage just to haul all the supplies she bought.
Right now, she’s smuggling it through the small holes in the forest-side fence. ”
I close my eyes, forcing back the barbed words on my tongue.
How could Micheline let her do it alone? But there’s no stopping Peonica, no matter what anyone says or does.
Hopefully, one day soon, she won’t have to risk her life ever again. I’ll make sure of it. Somehow.
“Good,” I say after another sip. “And just so you know, I’m not planning on losing. After the Red Hunter’s speech today, I can’t lose,” I sigh and then add quietly, “even if it means becoming something I never wanted to be.”
Micheline nods solemnly, then her gaze flicks over my shoulder, and she smiles. “And after your speech today, I think you’ve got yourself a flock of faithful worshipers.”
I barely have a moment to glance back when someone grabs me by my hand, a bold move, even after watching me take Kaelzar’s hand at the Spectra Judicium, and pulls me into the dance.
I mean to refuse, to pull away, ready to draw back my Decay magic if it so much as begins to spread, but the warmth from the spirit is already moving through my feet, giving them a mind of their own.
They carry me into the middle of the small, cheering, clapping crowd.
I twirl, clapping to the rhythm like everyone else. Music pours over me like an invisible plush blanket meant for comfort.
Smiles. So many trusting smiles, all around me, and I want to drown in their bliss. A laugh bubbles from my lips, sweet and unrestrained, and I realize it’s been so long since I’ve laughed so freely.
And yet beneath the revelry, something prickles at my awareness. A shift in the air, a quiet disturbance.
Out of habit, my gaze sweeps the edges of the room, beyond the laughter, beyond the bodies twirling in the firelight.
That’s when I see them, two men I don’t recognize, standing near the farthest table, their drinks untouched. They aren’t watching the dancers. They’re watching me. One of them has a milky eye that seems to look right through my soul.
For a fleeting moment, unease coils in my stomach, but I push it aside. Of course there are people who don’t want me here. Who wish I had disappeared with the rest of the cursed.
There will always be those who look at me and see something that needs to be removed. But they can glare all they want. I won’t let them steal this moment from me.
I turn away, lifting my chin as if daring them to keep staring. Then I let the music swallow me again.
An arm wraps around my waist, and a young, beautiful man comes into view, his face so close to mine that my body stiffens. Even through the hazy bliss of consumed wine, my instincts react, rejecting the unwanted closeness. I push away, harshly.
The man lets go with an apologetic bow but doesn’t move away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to offend you. The crowd is getting tighter, as everyone seems to wish to steal a dance next to our future Archpriestess. And I was daring enough to hope for one myself.”
I glance at the many pairs holding each other, men hurling women into the air, women laughing and asking for more.
It’s a stark contrast to the way unmarried men and women of noble birth hold themselves. They’re not only forbidden from touching but also from being alone without a duenna present.
The only time I ever danced was with Ryker, stiffly, at arm’s length, under my duenna’s watchful eyes. But every time I’ve come here, I’ve watched others on the floor and wondered what it would feel like… to be touched like that. To be swayed, held, wanted.
So what do I have to lose? If the other Champions have their way, this might be my last chance to enjoy anything at all. So I will.
I’ll let myself feel it—fully, selfishly. Just this once.
“And your boldness shall be rewarded,” I say with a smirk, offering my hand, curious to see just how far his courage will carry him.
The moment our fingers touch, I realize I’m not breathing. If the rot takes him, I think I have enough Blood magic in me from the meadow to heal him instantaneously.
A second passes. Then another. Still nothing, no rot ruins his skin.
And only then do I let out a slow, shaky exhale.
He flashes a perfect smile, the kind I’m sure has made many young girls consider whether Crimson Tether is worth tasting his lips.
Accepting the challenge, he not only takes my hand but presses his lips to it, his deep brown eyes never leaving mine. “It would be my honor.”
And then he pulls me into the frenzy of the dance.
I don’t know the steps. But tonight? Tonight, I’ll dance like it’s my last day.
The man twirls and tosses me, catching me one way and another. My white hair, streaked with red, flies into his face, and we laugh and laugh and laugh. The world is movement, heat, and sound, sweeping me along in its rhythm.
Until it isn’t.
A ripple of energy disturbs the air behind me, like the first stir of a storm in the distance. It’s subtle at first, barely more than a breath of cold cutting through the heat of bodies, the firelight, the liquor in my veins.
Then it settles. Stays.
I know who it is. I don’t need to turn around, don’t need to see him standing there like a monument to my every misstep.
I tell myself it’s bothersome. That it’s suffocating to be under his watch, to know he’s just standing there, unmoving, ever-present. That if he disapproves, if my joy grates against whatever grim philosophy he lives by, then I should make it worse.
So I do.
I throw my head back and let my smile stretch wider.
I spin, deliberately reckless, my fingers grazing the man’s hard chest as I catch my balance.
His hands steady on my waist, warm and eager, and I don’t pull away.
I let him linger, let my laughter ring out and my body sway as if I don’t feel the cold thread of Kaelzar’s gaze stitched into my skin.
The music slows and the man pauses, widening his arms in a silent offer. Would I take another dance, a slow one this time? All I have to do is step forward, walk into his arms, and experience something entirely new.
And I would. Just to be contrary. Just to prove—to myself, to my Godbeast—that I don’t care that he’s watching.
But before I can take that step, the quiet shifts. The familiar scent of frigid night and leather curls through the air from behind me.
“Go.”
The single word is a warning.
The man whose name I don’t even know, I suddenly realize, straightens, defiant. “Not until the lady tells me so,” he says, suddenly serious. “Though it seems she much prefers my company to yours. So maybe it should be you who goes.”
A large shadow creeps into my sightline and just like that, whatever game I thought I was playing is over.
I forgot. For a second, I forgot what Kaelzar is. What he can do. What he’s done before. I forgot that he doesn’t need to raise his voice or bare his teeth for a man like the one that holds me to make a very, very bad mistake.
I appreciate the stranger’s bravado, but a sharp unease digs under my ribs. I feel more than hear my Godbeast inhale, preparing to reply or perhaps end this conversation in a way that man would not walk away from.
So I step aside.
“I’ve had a wonderful time,” I say with an apologetic smile, my voice lighter than I feel. “But it’s time to take my Godbeast for his evening walk. And I’m afraid he keeps a strict schedule.”
The man smiles, takes my hand, and slowly brings it to his lips again.
“It was my pleasure,” he says, releasing me. “My name is Silas Woodlock. And if you ever need another dance partner, you can always find me here.”
He flicks a glance at Kaelzar, not quite challenging, but not cowering either. His confidence wavers for just a breath, and then, as if sensing an unspoken warning, he offers me one last smile and slips into the crowd.
I let out a long-suffering sigh and turn to face my Godbeast.
“What now?” I say harshly. “Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? Or do you just enjoy ruining a good time?”
Standing so close, I can make out his face beneath the low hood. His gray eyes gleam in the shadows like a cat’s. He exhales, aggravated, and the rattle of his chains makes me cringe.
“Letting a stranger grope you is a good time?” His voice is low, barely audible beneath the music.
Still feeling soft and fuzzy from the spirit in my belly, I snort. “You’re the last person I’d ever feel obligated to explain who is allowed to grope me and when,” I say. “You, of all people, don’t get a say.”
I tilt my head, let my eyes wander the room with deliberate carelessness.
“In fact,” I muse, tapping a finger against my chin, “I might find Silas Woodlock again and let him grapple with me some more, since it bothers you so much. Already have one of these,” I curl the red strand of my hair around my finger, watching for the slightest reaction beneath his hood, “might as well.”
Before I can move away, Kaelzar grips my arm and turns me away from the bar. “Do you know these men?” he asks.
I shove his arm away, ready to snap back, until I follow his gaze. At a table near the shadowy corner, the milky-eyed man I noticed earlier glares at me, his expression so full of hate that my body tenses on instinct.
“No,” I say. “But I’d be a fool to expect everyone to fall for the cursed Champion.”
Kaelzar tilts his head slightly, his attention razor-sharp.
“I overheard them whispering about getting rid of you.” His voice is quiet, unbothered.
“As if you’re an obstacle.” A pause. Then, as if remarking on the weather, or something equally mundane, he says, “Before I make them disappear, I could—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, pulse quickening. I know exactly how he’s going to finish that sentence, and I know he means it.
I turn on him, my voice sharp. “Don’t you dare talk about ‘disappearing’ people like they’re nothing but crumbs on your table,” I snap, panic and anger rising like a tide.
“You act like you’re above it all, like it’s easy for you.
Maybe it is. Maybe you’ve done it so many times it barely costs you anything.
But you don’t get to make that choice for me. ”
His deadly gaze cuts toward the corner. His body stays still, hands loose at his sides, yet the intensity in his eyes makes every instinct in me scream to avoid, submit, move out of his way. He looks like a predator that should never be tamed.
Then he moves, just barely. It is a subtle shift, but his body angles, placing himself between me and the men across the room. And that’s when I realize: he’s finally become what he was meant to be all along. My deadly protector.
The realization hits low and deep, a shiver rising through me before I can catch it. The danger in him should drive me back, but instead it pulls me closer. Heat blooms beneath my skin, dulling the edge of trepidation before I can stop it.
“Let’s go, beastie,” I say, shoving him toward the exit. The false lightness in my voice doesn’t quite land the way I want it to. “I promised you a walk.”