Chapter 4 #2
“And you revere none,” he retorts. “Or do you still pray to that god your mother used to speak of, the one her ancestors believed in? Those monotheistic zealots… What was his name? Rex?”
“Rexen,” I whisper.
His grin returns, teasing. “Yes, that’s it! Rexen.”
I shush him sharply, whipping my head around to make sure no one heard him.
“Oh, relax. No one’s listening to us.” He pauses. “Well, do you?”
To admit I prayed to him only this morning would be an act of treason.
I shake my head and lie. “Not in a long time. Not since…”
“Yeah,” Aaron says, his tone softening. “I don’t pray much, either. Not since my mother left us.”
We fall into a companionable silence. As we near the end of the Avenue of Faith, I see the one temple I don’t despise.
Half-hidden by ivy and marble columns lies the Sanctum of Maeva, goddess of harvest, healing, and home. Commoners still slip offerings of grain and milk through her barred gates. She’s the last refuge for unwed mothers—and for girls in need of being “atoned.”
“I spent most of that year between Maeva’s ward and Vareth’s temples,” I say, changing the subject. “The first was meant to teach me mercy. The second taught obedience.”
“And neither lesson stuck, after all that time?”
“You’re such a rake.”
“Guilty as charged,” he says, raising his hands in defeat.
Ahead, the capital bells shift tone, tolling out three notes, sharp and rising: the signal for the Selection.
The crowd surges like a wave, and Aaron steps back as the parade of crimson carriages rolls into the square.
“Good luck, Selene,” he calls over the din. “And may the gods favor your sister.”
I glance toward the temple one last time, its golden doors yawning wide. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whisper to myself.
I find Kat near the front, right beside the dais, eyes wide with wonder.
“It’s starting,” she breathes.
I nod, but my stomach twists. Kat’s breathless, her cheeks flushed and her hair askew in the wind. For a moment, she looks like the girl I used to run barefoot with through the fields, before politics and prophecy twisted our fates.
“Do you remember,” she whispers, “when we used to pretend we were dragon riders, fighting off bandits with sticks for swords?”
I smile faintly. “You always made me be the bandit.”
“Only because you were better at swordplay!” she protests.
The memory cracks something in my chest. I don’t want this to be our last moment together. Not like this. Not with smoke in the air and blood in the basin.
I hate this part—the way people dress it up and make it feel like a celebration of new life instead of what it really is: a ritual of death.
“We should get closer,” she says.
“This is close enough.”
She gives me a look, half disappointment, half worry, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns and threads through the throng, vanishing like a spark in the wind.
I linger at the edge of the crowd, half-shadowed by a tapestry booth. A child beside me clutches a carved dragon toy with its painted teeth bared. He laughs as he pretends to make it bite his sister. Their mother hushes them gently, smoothing the girl’s hair.
I turn away. My hands feel cold, my throat dry.
The Bloodmoon doesn’t care who it takes. And every year, twelve women in the crowd learn just how cruel the fire can be.
The square transforms into a stage of smoke and solemnity.
Vendors pack away their wares, eyes wary despite the crescendoing music.
Masked children toss crimson and white petals into the air, laughing, but even their joy feels thin, like incense masking decay.
The aroma of cinnamon bread mingles with the acrid bite of incense, clashing in my throat.
This is how they dull the horror, with pageantry and pastries, fire and rose petals, like wrapping a dagger in silk. Some of the people whisper blessings under their breath. Others clutch talismans or family crests. It’s a celebration, yes—but only for those who aren’t in the ring.
Music echoes from the high balconies. Dancers in dragon masks toss red feathers like embers. I spot Kat spinning beneath them, radiant.
She is the sun. She always has been, from the moment she was born. I’ve spent years watching her stitch light into the broken corners of our lives. It was Kat who still believed in the inherent goodness of humanity, even during those early years when our father gave her every reason not to.
Watching her spin now, arms raised, crimson fabric swirling, I want to grab her, hold her, hide her away. But the fire is already watching. I stay at the edge of the crowd, hidden in the shadows.
Then the music fades, and the high priestess of the temple of Drakonis emerges, draped in robes the color of dusk, her obsidian mask glinting in the firelight.
“As has been tradition for six hundred years,” she intones, “today, we offer twelve daughters who have reached their eighteenth year to the Crimson Flame, in hopes that peace and prosperity might continue to reign throughout our land.”
The sacred ring is already drawn in salt and ash, circled by pillars of flame. The apprentices chant. Scrolls of all the names of eligible maidens in Solmere are tossed into the ceremonial fire.
The Oracle, a tall, gangly woman dressed in a plain red cloak, approaches the flame. She takes her place next to the high priestess, eyes closed. With a burst of light, the fire spits out a curled scroll, smoke trailing in its wake. She catches it and unrolls the parchment.
“Awnya Surel,” she reads.
Drums pound. A woman screams in joy and collapses to her knees. A man—presumably her husband—joins her, and together they chant praises to the gods, voicing their gratitude as guards step forward to escort their daughter away.
They rise quickly, eyes full of tears, and kiss both her cheeks. It makes me sick. I watch as the first Bloodmoon bride is led to the stage, where the Oracle embraces her.
“We thank you for your sacrifice.” The Oracle says as she slices the girl’s palm with Azariel, the sacred blade. As the blade kisses her skin, I can’t help but think of all the hands that have bled to Azrael before hers—how many hopeful futures met their end on this same edge.
“We thank you for your sacrifice,” the crowd repeats in unison, bowing. I do not join them.
They tell us not to form attachments. Courtship is forbidden until you survive your years of eligibility—until your name is no longer cast into the fire. As if love listens. As if youth waits.
There are only three ways to be disqualified.
You can defile yourself with a man and be caught, declared impure, and surrendered to the temples for a minimum of one year of atonement—or worse, made a priestess of the Pink Rose.
You can be rich enough to ensure your name is never thrown into the flames at all.
Or you can insult the gods and be declared unworthy of their blessing; that was my fate.
Every other girl must endure the ritual. Once if you’re born in an odd year. Twice if you’re born in an even one, like me.
The cycle continues. Some girls walk willingly. Others have to be dragged. One man lunges through the line of guards, screaming, before they seize him. Tears fall. Hands reach.
The hope of a future love shatters.
I recognize some of them. Taryn, the baker’s daughter, who sometimes brought us leftover loaves after our mother died. Holly, whose own sister was forced to serve in the temple.
My hands shake.
“How many is that?” someone whispers nearby.
“Nine,” another murmurs.
The tenth… then the eleventh. A blur of names and faces. I brace myself, but my stomach churns. Each name feels like a drumbeat echoing through my ribs.
Not Kat. Not Kat. Not Kat.
I focus on my breath, counting it like I’m soothing a wild colt, but there’s no calming this storm.
The fire has its own will. It doesn’t care how kind you are, how many mouths you feed, or how many mornings you wake before dawn to keep your family together. It burns who it pleases, and it never gives back what it takes.
The pyre flares. The twelfth scroll burns gold and red. The roiling smoke deepens, and a gust rattles the banners overhead.
My gut clenches.
We live outside the city. Surely our names are lower on the list. Surely this isn’t the year.
I close my eyes and picture Kat back in the stables, humming as she brushes Maximus, her braid a golden rope down her back.
Please, I beg. Not her. Not today.
The Oracle reaches up, catches the scroll, and squints at it. “Katherine Fairchild.”
My heart shatters. My knees buckle. But I don’t fall. I can’t.
If I collapse, if I scream, if I show even an ounce of what I’m feeling, I might never stop.
She moves like she’s in a dream. Graceful. Dutiful. Blind.
I want to call her name, to scream at her to run, to throw myself between her and the Oracle. But my voice catches behind my teeth like a snared rabbit.
Somewhere, distant but sharp, a child cries. The world doesn’t end in that moment. But mine does.
Time slows as I watch my sister climb the steps to meet the Oracle’s embrace.
The Oracle stands tall, her voice like smoke and stone as she steps away and gestures to the girls standing before us with a flourish. “People of Solmere, behold: this year’s Bloodmoon Brides!”
The crowd erupts in thunderous applause.
I don’t move. I can’t breathe. The Bloodmoon has chosen.
And once again, it’s chosen to take someone I love away from me.