Chapter Fourteen #2
The world shifts and the cold air vanishes.
The scent of salt and frost is replaced by blooming flowers and the heady aroma of rich soil.
My head swivels, taking in the forest we stand in now.
Far different than the dense, wild woods we traveled through to get here.
I’ve never seen colors as vivid as the ones in this grove.
The trees glow faintly with magical energy flowing through their silver trunks like veins, while their leaves are a radiant blend of lavender and a light emerald.
Shared looks of awe are on our faces as we take in the otherworldly beauty.
Light filters down from no visible source, dappling the mossy pink earth in intricate patterns. The air itself thrums with power and, as I finish my exploratory search, my eyes land at the base of a tall, curved altar wrapped in white flowering vines.
Beside it is the woman I’ve feared meeting since Maggie’s broken recollection of her.
The High Priestess.
She wears robes of shimmering white and deep gray, flowing like the clouds of the Dromin and storms of the Nithrin.
Her presence is commanding, ethereal, and breathtaking.
Her skin has the same gray tone as my nightly visitor, but the purple hue is more vibrant and warm.
Long, pin-straight hair flows down over her shoulder to her waist.
My eyes are drawn to the sharp angles of her jaw and cheekbones before settling on her cold, silver-white eyes that glow with power. It’s a stark difference from the forced smile pulling her full lips up as we come to a stop in front of her.
I wonder if anyone here feels warmth from the forced expression, or if I’m just jaded from Maggie’s words.
“Welcome, offerings,” the High Priestess says, her voice smooth and echoing, somehow both gentle and cold.
Tongue of silk and sharp teeth beneath.
Thalia’s hand slides into mine without a word as I tremble with Maggie’s words in my mind.
“Why are you afraid all of a sudden?” Lisbeth murmurs near my ear. “I’ve seen you stare down worse things than a priestess.”
I don’t have an answer. Not one I can put into words.
It feels like standing outside of my body and watching the inevitable, dire fate that is coming, helpless to intervene.
The High Priestess begins to slowly descend the altar steps, her eyes scanning over us one by one. Her gaze is unreadable, but sharp in her examination.
She stops at the edge of the platform, her hands moving forward as her sleeves pull back over her wrists. In her hands, cradled, is an orb.
Black and white energy chase each other in slow, endless spirals across the surface.
Maggie’s voice echoes unbidden in my mind again. It hums. Sings. Burns.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
I’ve faced fear before, but never like this. Never with such a terrible sense of inevitability curling in my gut.
The orb gleams, its spirals turning slowly in the Priestess’s grasp, and I can’t shake the dread that it will strip me bare the moment it touches my mind.
“There are far fewer of you than there should be,” she announces.
For a heartbeat, hope flickers in my chest. Maybe she’ll demand answers. Maybe she’ll right the wrongs. Maybe those women didn’t die in vain.
Her voice hardens, cold and final. “Clearly, they were not strong enough to stand here and be tested as the next queen.”
The words strike harder than any physical blow could. My stomach twists and that flicker of hope sputters and dies.
The Priestess turns away, already moving toward the altar again as if their deaths are nothing more than a blemish on her ledger, not lives lost or futures stolen. Just weakness, weeded out.
We really aren’t chosen, just offerings.
“Isn’t she supposed to be soft and kind,” Lisbeth whispers beside me, her voice barely audible over the hush of the forest grove, “if she’s the direct connection to the elves’ goddess?”
The High Priestess’s gaze snaps toward us—toward Lisbeth specifically—like she’s heard the whisper as clearly as if it had been shouted. A slow, deliberate step forward brings her closer, the orb still nestled in her hands.
“You misunderstand my role,” she says, her tone perfectly level but laced with quiet disdain. “I am not here to offer softness, nor sentiment. I am the neutral vessel tasked with identifying the one among you who bears the qualities required of a queen.”
Her glowing eyes scan our group again, cool and detached. “I will not weep for the human lives lost. They were fleeting. Fragile, as they always are. It is expected that some fall before they ever reach these grounds, each selection.”
Her words slice through the silence, a chilling reminder that compassion holds no place in this, and that we are seen not as the best our villages have to offer to this elf, but as vessels to be sifted and sorted.
Offerings.
“We will waste no further time,” she announces, her voice ringing across the grove, final and absolute. “We will begin the testing.”
My breath catches, a cold bolt of panic rooting me in place as the guards disappear back through the shining barrier.
The Dromin’s words and the plea in them come hurtling back to the forefront of my memory.
When you’re tested, think of me. Only me.
Why does he know anything about the selection, and what will thinking of him do for me?