Chapter 4
The Selection
Ihead toward the livestock pens at the heart of the market. Just as I pass the farrier’s tent, a shadow darts from behind an adjacent building.
“BOO!”
I whirl around and let my fist fly into the face of my attacker.
“Ow! Selene, it’s me!”
As the confusion clears, I find myself facing Aaron Grey, whose very name grates on my nerves. “Aaron Michael Gray! You imp!”
He only pouts, casting a forlorn glance at the horses. “Aww, they didn’t even spook.”
“They’re trained not to, you dolt!” I snap, still fuming.
A tuft of Aaron’s auburn curls escapes his leather cap, emphasizing the freckles dancing across his nose.
The son of the minister of coins, he’s stupidly handsome, infuriatingly charming, and worst of all, he knows it.
He’s grown taller since last I saw him—broader in the shoulders, too—but he still wears that same boyish smirk that gets him both into and out of trouble more often than not.
I remember the summer he dared Kat to kiss a toad to “reverse his curse.” She chased him around the mill pond for hours after.
He has a gift for worming his way into people’s lives—and a knack for pretending he doesn’t care.
But I’ve seen him sneak apples for the hungry urchins who dart between market stalls.
Once, when my mother was sick, he brought Kat and me a satchel of wildflowers and healing elixirs along with a note that said, Don’t give up hope.
His duality infuriates me. And I think he likes that.
“Selling off your enchanted beasts today? Or just the surplus?” he teases.
Somehow, that stupid grin of his loosens the cold knot in my gut. I laugh despite myself and toss him an apple, which he catches effortlessly. “Here—make yourself useful,” I quip. “Cut this into four slices, one for each horse.”
A fellow horse lover, Aaron does just that, tossing me a wink. My stomach flips in disgust. Ever since we were kids, he’s called Kat and me witches for our strange affinity with animals. It’s never stopped him from flirting with us, though—us and every other eligible maiden in Solmere.
Despite his wealth and station, Aaron isn’t useless. He works for the Council as a tracker, tasked with hunting down anyone who tries to escape justice—and he’s damn good at it. Once, he found a thief hiding in the Council’s own archives. Since then, solving cases has been his obsession.
“Have you heard about the winner today?” he asks.
I ignore him and adjust Ashwing’s cinch, careful not to pull it too tight. In another week or so, I won’t be able to ride her.
“As I was saying,” Aaron begins again, stepping in front of me so that I have to look at him, “the winner of today’s race has the right to ask the Council for one favor.
Anything.” He grins. “Trader Max is racing to have his son released from prison. And I’m going to ask the Council to suspend modesty ordinances on the first day of each month.
” His expression remains perfectly serious.
“We can call it the New Moon observance.”
I roll my eyes. “Really? That’s your big request?” As if he keeps his clothes on more than he takes them off.
“Or,” he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “maybe I’ll just demand that they name the west bridge after me. The Aaron Arch. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Sounds like something I’d like to push you off of,” I mutter. “Then we can forever call it Aaron’s Memorial Bridge. ‘Here fell the most arrogant boy who ever lived.’”
He grins wider, crossing his arms and resting his hand on his disturbingly perfect jawline. “Anything taking my name in this city would vastly improve it.”
“Your endless humility never ceases to amaze me,” I say drily.
“Why, thank you!” He gives me a little mock-bow.
As we reach the stable, a thin, spectral figure appears at Aaron’s side, her silver-gray gown and eerie crimson sash standing out among the rough-spun tunics all around the livery.
Rosanne, daughter of the Oracle. The townsfolk call her eerie.
The traders call her dangerous. But I’ve always just called her…
unsettling. Even when we were younger, Rosanne never played.
She never ran or laughed like the other girls.
She simply watched. And sometimes, she whispered things that came true.
None of that ever stopped Aaron from befriending her. Their bond formed quietly, forged in the aftermath of loss. After Aaron and his brother lost their mother, Rosanne became a constant presence rather than something to fear.
Rosanne pauses at my side and leans in. “The night is red. Rings of flame. One will burn,” she whispers, her voice low enough that only I can hear. She straightens and smiles faintly, as if brushing off a trivial thought.
Then she brushes past me, her fingertips grazing my arm. My breath catches. Her hands are ice, but the chill runs deeper, as if it’s touched something… old… inside me.
“What does that mean?” I ask, but she’s already drifting away.
She doesn’t answer. She never does.
Rosanne is known for her spontaneous prophecies, fragments of fate dropped like ash from a flame. I still remember the day she predicted the barn fire. We were twelve. She wandered into the square and murmured something about smoke chasing hooves.
That night, lightning struck our neighbor’s stable. Five horses were lost. No one believed her before, but after that, they feared her.
I never did, not exactly. But I learned to listen. And when she touched me, it felt like that same storm—contained, waiting—crackling just beneath my skin.
Though she has yet to inherit her mother’s official title, her words already send shivers down the townsfolk’s spines. Most people fear her, but Aaron never has. They’ve been inseparable since childhood—born of shared loss, held together by stubborn loyalty. A prophetess and her shadow.
Before I can ask again what she meant, the market bell tolls twice. It’s almost time.
The bells echo like thunder across the rooftops, sending a hush rippling through the crowd. People pour into the square, their expressions clashing, either bright with anticipation or dulled with dread.
The closer we ride to the city’s heart, the louder the world becomes. Bells toll from every district, calling worshipers to the temples along the Avenue of Faith. Smoke rises from thousands of censers, carrying incense and prayer and the stench of hypocrisy.
“They act like this doesn’t happen every other year,” Aaron says, falling into step beside me as I lead Ashwing through the crowd. “You’d think the gods themselves were descending,”
“Which ones? The god of fire or the goddess of flesh?” I jab.
He smirks. “Depends on which temple you visit.”
We pass beneath the marble archway marking the Avenue of Faith.
I look to the right and see the Temple of the Eternal Flame, where priests in crimson robes are chanting before a roaring pyre.
The heat ripples across my skin as we pass.
Petitioners kneel, tossing handfuls of oil and incense into the pit as they whisper prayers to Drakonis, the god of flame and judgment.
The priests call him the Creator and the Judge, but I remember the old stories, how he was once a dragon who swallowed the sun and fell in love with a mortal queen.
His worshipers burn petitions in his fire and believe that pain is proof of purity.
They say pain purifies, that fire makes souls clean, but I’ve been burned enough to know better.
Across the square stands its sister temple, the Shrine of Liraen, goddess of the moon and mercy, patroness of the dead.
Its roof is silver, its doors always open.
The brides destined for the Rite come here to pray for safe passage into whatever lies beyond the fire and mist. Her followers wear white, in contrast to Drakonis’s crimson-clad disciples.
Next comes the Temple of the Pink Rose, dedicated to Elarene, goddess of desire and devotion.
Once it was a refuge for widows and the broken; now it’s little more than a perfumed brothel veiled in roses.
Silken curtains ripple in the wind, giving us a glimpse of laughing priestesses arrayed in blush and gold.
“Still making your donations there, Aaron?” I ask, nodding toward the temple.
“Of course. I am a charitable man, after all.” His grin doesn’t fade, but his eyes flicker guiltily.
“‘Charitable’ is one word for it,” I say, my eyes not leaving the temple.
“You can’t expect men to live like monks, Selene.”
I scoff. “Funny how the laws of purity don’t apply to you.”
“Ah, but we men were made in the dragon’s image,” he replies. “Free and unbound.”
“And women?”
“The gods’ gifts. To be protected,” he says with a wink.
“You mean owned.”
Aaron laughs uneasily. One of Elarene’s priestesses catches his eye through a veil of roses and winks back. His cheeks color, betraying him, and I roll my eyes.
“I see you’re still as charming as ever,” he says, casting me a sidelong glance. “You never did make peace with the temples.”
“Hard to make peace with the place that burned you,” I mutter.
He frowns. “You mean your year of atonement.”
“That’s what they called it,” I answer, gesturing back to the row of marble arcades standing tall in gilded corruption disguised as piety. “Atonement for blasphemy. For claiming to have seen what no one wanted to believe.”
“You were gone a whole year. What was it like in there?” he asks, gesturing toward the towering white facade of the Temple of the Sun, dedicated to Vareth, god of law, light, and oaths.
Its steps gleam gold in the morning light, carved with Vareth’s sacred scales. “Don’t tell me you prayed every day.”
“Oh, come now,” I say. “Don’t tell me you’ve only ever visited the Temple of Elarene.”
Aaron chuckles. “What other goddess is worth visiting? Elarene’s priestesses know how to keep a man humble. And entertained.”
I arch a brow. “Typical. You adore the goddess of flesh and ignore the rest.”