3. Raithe
Raithe
Alekko swiped his forehead with the back of his hand as we emerged to the main palace grounds. “I’ll freshen up and debrief the queen regent and princess during their dinner shortly, assuming none of the barons have arrived yet ahead of the trial.”
I glanced at the stables, empty except for the royal fleet of Pegasi that filled it. “Doesn’t appear so. The ceremony is still two days away.”
Our strides were long across the once lush grounds, now nearly desert-like. Only the palace gardens were still carefully maintained, serving as a preservation of Scorpio’s environs before the curse.
“I know you took no pleasure from today,” Alekko said carefully. “I wish Maryn hadn’t—”
“My assistance was required. There’s nothing more to it.” There wouldn’t even be anything to debrief apart from the mark I’d found. I’d only shattered the prisoner’s toes, fingers, and kneecaps before he pissed himself and passed out again.
Servants and guards averted their eyes as I passed them in the elegant halls, the fading sunlight peering through the large apertures. The palace was in disarray for the ceremonial ball that would take place following Cyrene’s trial.
So long as the other courts deigned to attend this one, that was. At this rate, that didn’t seem likely considering it took weeks to travel by skyship across the territories and not one had arrived yet.
With Cyrene being the twelfth Chosen princess since the start of the curse, the queendom had hope.
Twelve was the most sacred of numbers in our realm, after all, holding significant meaning whenever it manifested.
Twelve constellations and corresponding signs made up the Zodiac.
Twelve months were in an astrological year.
Without a travel stone, a person was permitted only twelve days in another territory.
The rest of Gaianos still watched us with doubt, believing our queendom was permanently tainted by the curse. It was hard to disagree.
Three familiar, steady footsteps sounded from several hallways away. One belonged to a pair of high heels, the other leather sandals, and the third boots like my own.
“Raithe,” Cyrene greeted me upon rounding the corner.
Her elegant black dress swished to a stop as surprise adorned her soft features.
Her light brown hair was slicked back into an updo similar to the queen regent behind her.
“I trust you slept well today? No…” Cyrene peeked nervously over her shoulder. “No unlawful adventures for you?”
“Princess.” I bowed swiftly. “Of course not.” My eyes shifted to Felaf, who now stood beside Cyrene. She offered a smile in greeting, one as warm as her braided blonde hair. The solar guardian was a complete contrast to the queen regent at her side, whose heels now clattered to an abrupt halt.
“I should hope not.” Maryn’s pinning blue eyes roamed me with displeasure. “He’s a guardian, Cyrene, nothing more. And one whose sleeping habits are of no consequence to you. You will address him as such, as you do her.” Maryn gestured vaguely to Felaf. “Go on, give it a try.”
Cyrene glanced between the queen regent and myself, uncertain.
Her eyes landed on the two sharp pommels peeking over my shoulders.
To her, the twin Athenian blades strapped across my back appeared as nothing more than weapons.
But they were more than that. They were the strongest of blades, their unyieldingly sharp edges forged from an unbreakable metal found nowhere else in the skies.
They’d also been my constant companions for the past eleven years since winning the last Elemental Tournament.
Every twelve years, the courts convened at the Equator to host a tournament for all twenty-four guardians to compete against one another.
The games—deadly in nature—determined the strongest guardian, and therefore equated to bragging rights for the reigning territory.
The next tournament approached in March after the first Equinox, in which I would pass the blades to a new winner if I lost.
I had no intention of letting that happen. With them, I was practically untouchable.
The Athenian blades were also a reminder to Cyrene of what Maryn only saw us guardians as: glorified bodies to do her bidding. No such sordidness existed in any of the other courts, where guardians were held in equal reverence alongside seers and royals.
“Guardian,” Cyrene said detachedly, the regent’s influence taking hold. Satisfied, Maryn gave her a curt nod.
Felaf’s brows furrowed. She was the only other person in the queendom who understood the complexities of guardian stature.
We were important enough—feared, even—to be recognized as Chosens, but not important enough to have an actual voice in our own court.
Our will was inconsequential and our desires obsolete.
We were weapons to protect and shields to defend in the name of our Chosen royal and queendom.
Nothing else could matter, and that suited me well.
Dutiful but still a novice, Felaf had much to learn about our place—and I wasn’t exactly a model to follow these days. Her tanned face scrunched in annoyance at Maryn, wrinkling the sun symbol positioned at the center of her forehead.
Glyphs formed all over a Chosen’s body like constellations, and were often described as the language of the stars—a representation of the cosmic power that existed within Chosens.
All glyphs, regardless of territory, appeared as white faded scars.
Until a Chosen used their powers; then they glowed the same color as their talisman.
There were three types of Chosens, so there were three types of primal glyphs to distinguish which Chosen we were.
Guardians bore a primal glyph branded across their forehead as a sun or moon; seers, a milky sheen in their eyes that robbed their vision; and royals, the symbol of their element once they had passed their trial.
Since Felaf was a solar guardian, her primal glyph was circular with elongated teardrop points extending outwardly, resembling drawn sun rays. As a lunar guardian, I bore a central full moon flanked by a sequence of smaller lunar phases above my eyebrows.
The Choosing was a gruesome process. Alekko and I had both thought I was dying when Scorpio first branded me with these permanent markings in my bunk on the Isles.
“Someone told me there was an interrogation today, following yesterday’s attack in the city,” Cyrene said at last. “Is… that where you were?”
“You were informed,” Maryn corrected. “A queen is never told anything.”
Cyrene lowered her eyes. “Oh.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Alongside Commander Alekko, we discovered—”
“That will be for the commander to share, Guardian,” Maryn said.
“Your Highness.” I bowed my head, the portrait of a perfectly obedient guardian. Maryn tested my patience, but I tried to set a good example for Felaf, even if I disobeyed our regent more often than not these days.
“I’d… like to hear what happened,” Cyrene pushed gently.
Maryn gave her a withering look. “You will when we debrief with the commander.”
Maryn rarely included Felaf or me in any formal debriefings. Even though I had done the interrogation, Alekko would share what we’d gleaned.
Cyrene nodded. “Right… of course. We’ll wait for Alekko then.”
“If there was anything you needed to know before your ceremony, as regent, I promise I would inform you. Most importantly, we need you rested for the trial and merriment to follow. I imagine the celebrations won’t stop for days once you break the curse.”
The princess smiled at that. Talk amongst the queendom had reached her ears by now; because she was the twelfth princess since the curse had started, she would be the one to end it.
The one to finally don the topaz necklace, Scorpio’s fourth and most significant talisman.
As guardians, Felaf and I each wore the topaz in the form of a ring.
The third stone belonged to the queendom’s seer, Gregorios, set in a bracelet.
Wearing a talisman was the only way a Chosen could wield their power.
Without it, we were utterly powerless. And that was precisely the reason for the cursed drought that plagued us: in twelve years, Scorpio hadn’t had a royal queen successfully wield the power of water—known as hudro—using the topaz to produce rainstorms to nourish our skylands.
Royals were the only Chosens who weren’t gifted immediately.
Once Chosen, princes and princesses had up to twelve months to find the mental connection to their elemental power—hudro, aero, gi, or pyro.
Only once found could they then be tested in a ceremonial trial, where success meant their coronation as a royal queen or king.
To fail was to die, resulting in a new Chosen selected by the Astrals in the following astrological year.
The longer it took a prince or princess to harness their power, their reign was prophesied to be fraught with instability.
If not ready within twelve months, princes and princesses were still required to endure their ceremonial trial.
Except they, too, would be given as a sacrifice alongside their family.
Cyrene’s progress had been quick like the eleven princesses before her. She was only Chosen two months ago, and while she technically had ten months left, she claimed to have found hudro last week. I wondered if such a statement was true, as the pressure to break the curse was astronomical.
“Come.” Maryn clapped once. “Let us feast with your family while they still live.”
My gaze remained on the polished floor as they ambled past, the black skirts of their gowns swishing across my peripheral. Moments after, a familiar purple-haired servant intercepted my path to my chamber.
Letti wordlessly lifted a tray filled with all sorts of sweets from the kitchens. She was a quiet maid who primarily tended to Chosens’ secondary palace needs, though Maryn deemed herself and the princess above Letti’s services.
I raised a brow. She positioned the tray higher. I was about to question her insistence—she knew I didn’t care for sugar—when I spotted a square folded parchment propped between two cookies.
Letti’s scowl gave away nothing. I took the note. She turned without another word and limped back toward the kitchens. I ducked behind a column for privacy and unfurled the parchment. When the earthy aroma of frankincense hit my nostrils, I knew at once who it was from even without a signature.
Observatory. Dawn. Do not be seen.