Chapter 2 #2
Cynthia rolled her warm brown eyes at me, lifting her chin high. “Of course not.” But we both knew that was a lie. She sighed, concern entering her gaze as she looped her arm in mine and pulled us toward the other children.
Villagers were crowding into the square; the parents at the front of the crowd nervously looked at the line of children. They were a sea of dull grays and vibrant colors. The only time of the year that the nobles and the poor came together in mutual understanding.
It was rare for noble children to be rejected.
Their families came from long generations of magic, but it did happen.
Depending on the family, sometimes those children were cast out of their homes and cut off by their families.
It was cruel, but that was what this kingdom was built on.
Power. And if you didn’t have it, you were nothing.
My eyes landed on my mother, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her large blue eyes were fixed on the road, where a massive horse-drawn carriage thundered toward us with five smaller carriages trailing after it.
The royal carriage was enormous. Its dark wood curved and bent into a wide, circular body set on wheels. It rose high above the others, so tall it had to hold two floors within. Small circular windows were stacked one above the other along each side.
It was painted a deep black, the Velra crest emblazoned across the panels—a golden crown and sword glinting in the light. The remaining carriages were much smaller, though painted in the same black and gold.
Dozens of guards surrounded them, riding horseback on either side. Their black and gold uniforms blended seamlessly with the procession as they moved forward in unison.
The royal carriage came to a stop at the back of the crowd.
Everyone turned from the stage, their gazes now fixed in its direction.
A burly guard dismounted his horse and hurried to the carriage door, opening it with a low bow.
A foot crashed onto the pedestal, and a petite woman stepped out from the darkened interior.
Her pale face was neutral, although it looked like she was sneering.
Her black, inky hair fell to her shoulders, and a glittering gold crown with multicolored jewels rested on top of her head.
She was wearing a flowing silken black gown, a purple cloak resting on her shoulders.
The Queen. Morgana.
Her face was like marble, unmoving and cold. Her yellow eyes seemed to glow even at this distance, and I shivered at seeing her this close. She was the most powerful being in our lands, the most revered, the most feared.
Another figure left the carriage, and a tall, fierce-looking male appeared next to her.
King Gormick’s face was also like marble, cold and unmoving.
He had chiseled features and might have been handsome if not for the raised, jagged pink scar that ran from his scalp down to his neck.
He was wearing a uniform similar to the guards', but his uniform was finer, more regal than the ones surrounding him.
My gaze followed them as they walked side by side toward the stage, but stopped as another figure emerged from the carriage. Murmurs spread through the crowd and my eyes widened as my gaze landed on the princess—Alana.
She was only a few years older than Cynthia and me, but she looked a lot older. No one had seen her in years, and now we knew why.
Her skin was littered with sharp, jagged white scars that gleamed in the rising light. She was glaring, but she kept her head high, ignoring the murmuring from the crowd, the stares. Her pale yellow eyes were fixed on the horizon, past her parents, and they held the same eerie glow.
Alana had the same olive skin as her father, and she looked like a warrior heading off to battle…or she would have if she weren’t wearing a ruffled blue dress.
I turned to Cynthia, who was already looking at me, and we both mouthed, “It's her.” And we had to hold in a giggle as we did.
We turned our attention back to the approaching royals, and I flinched as the princess’s icy gaze locked onto mine. I bowed my head slightly, my eyes darting toward the ground.
I shivered and glanced at Cynthia, who also had her head bowed, and I dared a glance back up. The princess was no longer looking our way, and I sighed in relief as I watched them approach the center of the stage.
Everyone went deathly quiet, and we all jumped when a cry split the air from somewhere near the last carriage.
All eyes turned toward the sound, and a tall, muscular guard appeared, dragging a wailing, thrashing male behind him toward the stage.
His wrists were bound by tight leather straps and the guard was pulling him by the collar of his tattered tunic.
“I’m not a rebel, I promise! It wasn’t me, I swear!” His voice was hoarse with desperation, each plea edged with panic.
Something dark swirled around the male's body, and he screamed somehow louder. “Please, no!”
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the man now appeared bound in inky shadows on the stage at the queen's feet. The male thrashed in his new bindings, his cries echoing across the square.
“I promise—it wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! I’m not a rebel, I swear!”
The king's hand twitched, and his cries were choked off as the air was stolen from his lungs. Wet, gasping noises filled the air, and the crowd shifted uncomfortably as we all watched him fight against his bindings, struggling for breath.
“We do not tolerate traitors. Nor do we allow rebel scum to walk free,” the king barked. “Let this be a warning to you all.”
The male was lifted into the air and placed on his knees before the queen, facing the crowd. Tears were falling down his cheeks, and he was shaking his head violently, his eyes spearing into the crowd, pleading for anyone to help.
In the next instant, the queen lunged. Her fangs snapped down, sinking into the man’s artery. Blood sprayed across the stage, and children shrieked; a few breaking from the line we had formed and sprinting toward their parents.
Shouts rang out as parents tried to tell them to stop, to go back, but it was too late.
The king already had his shadows spearing toward the three fleeing children. The tendrils lashing around their small bodies, dragging them toward the stage as they screamed in terror. Their parents were shouting, sobbing, but they didn’t dare move from the crowd toward them.
“And we do not tolerate cowards,” the king thundered, his voice resonating with brutal authority.
The queen dropped the drained man with a thud, her hungry gaze sweeping the crowd. She kicked his limp body from the stage, rolling him into the dirt at the feet of the villagers.
The children appeared in a blast of shadow on the stage, and the queen drew a serrated dagger from her hip, turning toward them. Their bodies went limp, subdued by unseen magic, their cries winking out.
This happened every year. And every year, despite knowing the cost, children still ran.
The queen stepped closer, and everyone held their breath. The only sound was the muffled sobs of their parents in the crowd.
With deliberate precision, the queen dragged her dagger across each child’s palm. I watched carefully, trying to see what she was looking for, but her face revealed nothing as she examined their blood. The queen glanced at the king and gave a slight shake of her head.
He released his grip on the children, their bodies thudding to the stage as guards rushed forward to seize them.
They were theirs now. They would serve as sources or servants, their cowardice binding them to a life of labor.
A hand slipped into mine, and I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching Cynthia’s hand against my back so no one would see. I let go quickly, fearing it might be taken as weakness, but the fleeting comfort had steadied me.
The king and queen faced the crowd once more, smug satisfaction etched across their faces. The princess remained unmoved. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t spoken—only stood silently, looking bored.
“Begin,” the king declared, his voice echoing over the square.
Guards started to shuffle the children forward, and one by one their palms were cut open by the queen's blade. She never spoke; only gave a nod for those chosen and dismissed the ones that weren't, ignoring their pleas to check again.
Cynthia and I were approaching the stage now, our steps light as we shuffled forward.
A tall, lanky boy was in front of me; his fine clothing, and clean skin were a stark contrast to mine.
I glanced down at my dress, dirty and faded, and a wave of embarrassment flooded me, my cheeks warming as I took another step.
We were only a few steps away from the stage now, and I swung my gaze toward my mother, searching for her in the crowd.
When my gaze crashed with hers, the fear I saw within her large blue eyes didn’t make me feel any better.
Her hands were wringing together in front of her, and she gave a small smile in my direction.
I tried to smile back, but it might have fallen short.
Cynthia pushed me, and I realized I had stopped walking. I was now about two paces away from the boy in front of me, and I scrambled forward before anyone would notice. I pulled anxiously again at the red thread of my dress as I took the first step that would lead me to the stage, to my fate.
A strange wind blasted through the square, stirring the otherwise still air that had settled around us a moment ago.
The sudden wind blew strands of my chestnut hair into my face, and I nearly tripped as I took another step upward towards the stage.
My hair obscured my vision, and I fought with the tangled strands until I could see properly again.