Chapter 22 #2
Brannick spun me and I let him. My body was still wrecked—every muscle filing complaints from Dreadscale's training—but the drums were doing something to the pain, burying it under rhythm.
He danced the way he fought: big, graceless, completely committed.
His laugh was loud enough to cut through the music every time I stepped on his feet, which was often.
Through the crush I caught Serenya swaying with Maxx, her usual restraint melted away, both of them grinning like idiots. Good. If anyone in this gods-forsaken rebellion deserved a night off from being terrified, it was her.
The brazier flames at the center of the main chamber burst higher, sending sparks spiraling up toward the ceiling.
A collective cheer swelled—loose and free, the sound of people remembering they were allowed to want things.
Brannick, his eyes gleaming with mischief, grabbed my hand, his grip firm and damp with sweat.
"Come on!" he boomed. "Time for Seer Lottery Roulette!"
He pulled me through the surging crowd, we jostled against other rebels, all drawn by the magnetic pull of the brazier. The air grew drier as we got closer, the heat cracked my lips and made my eyes water.
We approached the edge of the throng, and Brannick leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial murmur.
"Alright, little flame, you just scrape off a bit of your inner mask—the essence of that lie you tell yourself.
And toss it into the fire, and the Seers…
well, they do their Seer thing." He gestured to the veiled figures circling the brazier, their bone bells clinking softly, an ominous counterpoint to the celebratory din.
"The magic," he continued, eyes bright and fixed on the flames, "will spit out one of the lies.
Reading it like a confession. That person has to hear their confession out loud, for all the world to hear.
" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"But the magic of facing it… it burns it.
Burns it clean. And they're free." He clapped me on the back, a solid, reassuring thump.
"It’s like a gift bag, Uncrowned style." The thought sent a jolt through me.
A game of truth, played with fire and ancient magic.
My pulse quickened, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.
One by one, rebels stepped forward, a glint of fear and fierce resolve in their eyes, scraping a sliver from their inner mask—the secret shame—and tossing it into the hungry flames. Each tiny shard of papier-maché disappeared with a faint hiss.
Then, the brazier belched. Instead of the clean, bright flame of burning wood, a thick, angry blood-red smoke coiled upward, staining the cavern walls in lurid crimson. It heaved like a malevolent heart. The drums faltered.
One of the Seer twins spoke. "The flame chooses... Aaron, the faceless foot soldier."
My eyes snapped to the edge of the crowd. Aaron. The minor logistics officer—thin, unremarkable, a male you’d look past without meaning to. He stood frozen, face gone sheet-white, eyes wide with dawning horror.
The Seer's voice split through the silence, devoid of warmth.
"The ledger brands you COWARD." The words hit like blows. "Your own heart whispers: TRAITOR."
A murmur slithered through the crowd. Bodies shifted. Eyes cut sideways.
Aaron's hands shook as he scraped the sliver from the inside of his mask and flung it into the brazier. The flames swallowed it—then choked. The shard shot back out in a spray of sparks and skittered across the trampled earth, still glowing that sick, pale light. Unburned. Unaccepted.
A gasp ripped through the rebels.
The rebel beside Aaron stepped back. Just one step—but it was enough. A gap opened around him like he was already contagious.
Kaelen watched from the edge of the circle, face unreadable. Then his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile on a warmer person.
"Illuminating."
Two of his guards stepped from the shadows, silent and unerring. They gripped Aaron by the arms and pulled him from the floor without a word.
"To discuss security," Kaelen said mildly.
I held my breath.
This wasn't mercy. This was a purge dressed in ritual clothes. The Veil-Masque didn't just burn lies—it exposed the people too weak to release them. And Kaelen had been watching the whole time, waiting to see who buckled.
The silence stretched. No one moved toward the brazier. No one looked at it directly, either—like staring too long might invite the next choosing.
Then it surged again—not the blood-red violence of Aaron's choosing, but a thick, viscous cloud of violet smoke that coiled upward, snaking toward the cavern ceiling. Slower this time. Almost reverent.
One of the Seer twins, her voice thin and reedy yet amplified by the magic, pierced the hush.
"The flame chooses... Ryla of the Long Mark!"
My eyes found them instantly—the way you always could, because they were never more than arm's reach apart.
Ryla stood frozen, her scarf wrapped securely around her neck, that crossbow still hanging at her hip like she might need to shoot her way out of this.
Torin's hand had been resting on the small of her back.
Now his fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, knuckles going pale.
The Seer's voice, cold and absolute, sliced through the stunned silence.
"The King brands you CRAVEN." The word bounced off the vaulted ceiling and came back twice. "Your own heart whispers UNWORTHY."
The crowd went still. The brazier popped once and a log shifted, sending a fan of sparks sideways across the packed earth. Nobody moved to brush them off.
Ryla didn't breathe. All that razor-edged pragmatism drained out of her in a single heartbeat. Her jaw worked, but nothing came out. The warrior who never flinched at blood looked like she'd been gutted where she stood.
The confession hung in the air. I watched her hand drift toward the scarf she never took off, even in the heat.
Then Torin moved.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her back against him like he could shield her from the weight of a thousand staring eyes.
His face buried in her hair, and when his voice came, it was tender.
A sound I'd never heard from the warrior who watched everything with quiet, measuring silence.
"Lie!" The word tore out of him in defiance. A roar against the magic, against the judgment, against anyone who dared believe it.
A collective roar of approval erupted from the rebels around us, a wave of support that shook the cavern.
Ryla scraped a sliver from the inside of her mask and hurled it into the brazier—it flared white-hot on contact, the lie burning clean to pale ash.
Her shoulders sagged as she leaned into Torin. A dry, coarse sob tore from her lungs. She leaned her forehead against him, breathing hard, steadying herself on the only solid thing left in the world.
Torin gripped her shoulders. Stepped back just enough to see her face.
His eyes dropped to her scarf. Then back to her eyes, fierce and unwavering.
She nodded once.
His hands rose to her neck. He unwrapped the scarf one loop at a time—faded wool, edges fraying where her fingers had worried them. He peeled it free with a breath-held reverence, his touch barely a ghost against her.
The scarf fell away, revealing what she'd hidden for so long: a lattice of pale scars circling her neck like a collar of their own. Marks that told a story no one had the right to demand.
Ryla's fingers closed over his. Together, they pulled the suffocating scarf free.
She stood there, throat bare, chin high. Daring anyone to look away.
Torin took her hand, bowed slightly and kissed her knuckles. Then rose and kissed her scars—gentle, reverent, a vow spoken without words.
You are not craven. You are not unworthy. You are mine, and you are enough.
Ryla's breath shuddered out of her. Then she turned, scarf clutched in her fist, and hurled it into the brazier.
The wool caught slow—curling at the edges first, browning, then splitting open into greasy orange flame. The crowd watched it blacken and curl in on itself until there was nothing left but a dark smear on the coals.
For a moment, Ryla just stood—throat still bare, Torin's forehead pressed to hers. Then the crowd swallowed them back into its warmth, and the brazier settled, its hunger sated.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maxx to climb onto a table. "Fantastic." He clapped once, sharp enough to crack the tension in half. "Love a good unmasking. Very cleansing. Now if the flames are done being dramatic, some of us came here to dance."