Except, as she reaches the church gates, her bare shoulders rub against two others, and nothing happens.
They do not turn to ash.
Rage floods my veins. She possesses my magic, but she is not confined to a life of loneliness.
I steeple my fingers, bringing them to my lips as I watch her disappear, my magic longing to turn her to ash and end this prophecy.
EIGHTCalista
The church is transformed by the red glow of the setting sun—the rays piercing through the stained-glass windows, scattering fragments of colors onto the stone ground.
I spot my family in the first pew, my mother dressed in an opulent silver gown embroidered with the symbols of Essentria’s coven. My three sisters, each descending in height, gaze at the elders appearing on the dais.
Eliana spots me, her wide eyes shining as she waves. I shoot her a grin, then find my mother’s venomous glare and sour expression.
I turn my focus away from her, knowing she won’t cause a scene in front of such prominent families and the other elders. It’s the one thing I can count on her for.
My eyes track the space where the statue stood now houses a large stone basin sat upon a pillar of marble. My mouth dries as I track my father across the raised wooden platform where he joins the six other elders. Long, crimson cloaks hang in contrast to their pristine white robes, a mimicry of the robes the sacrifices will wear. As I cast my gaze over each of them, I notice the absence of the eldest among them, who must be almost ninety. Standing at the back, the youngest—at only thirty and the most recent victor of The Harvest—rubs his bloodshot eyes.
Typically, their number stands at eight, though it occasionally dwindles to seven or expands to as many as nine. But as there can only be one new elder every decade, it is always a small coven.
With bated breath, I await news of Drake. I hope he’s already on his way to another land, but any sliver of comfort dissolves when I consider what dangers may wait for him when he arrives.
My father steps forward, his cloak billowing around him in a ripple of red. His gravelly voice resonates throughout the building, packed with the most important people from each coven in the community. “It is a dark day for us all.”
Repressing the urge to roll my eyes, I slip behind a family with two small children, slinking into a pew at the back of the church without being noticed.
He continues, his bright blue eyes matching mine as he takes a second step forward. “You may wonder why the sacred statue of the God of Death is missing.”
He pauses for dramatic effect. Gasps and hushed whispers fill the air, and I blow out a tense breath as I notice a hint of disgust twisting his features.
His voice booms again, and the chatter fades into silence. “It was destroyed by traitors, hiding within our beloved community. This barbaric act stands as a reminder that we will fight against those who try to destroy our traditions. We fought against the non-magical humans, and it was Death who saved us from them,” he states, enunciating each word. Finally, his pointed stare finds me in the crowd. I shift my body, positioning myself half out of view, but he doesn’t look away as he preaches. “The humans will kill us all if they find any weakness amongst us. The Harvest keeps us strong. It is our honor to serve you, to hold the magic of all six covens, gifted to us by the sacrifice of our own, to keep Dahryst strong.”
He averts his gaze to the rest of the congregation, and I shake my head. Gifted? I’m certain the other people who were sacrificed would disagree if they weren’t dead.
His voice raises an octave, and I focus on the elders. “If we fight amongst ourselves, then we open the way for the humans, who will slaughter our sons and daughters for holding powers they envy. They call us an abomination of nature, yet we are born from it. We are only as strong as our leaders. Without us, the borders will not hold, and the humans will come,” he explains, as if we haven’t all heard this hundreds of times already. However, I detect a slight waver in his tone, so subtle that it could easily go unnoticed. Yet, I know my father well, and he never falters unless he’s afraid.
The elders can feel their power slipping.
My father continues. “We must find these treacherous cowards and remove the poison from our society before it spreads.”
I zone out as he proceeds into a historical lecture, hoping the so-called poison spreads. I want everyone in this town who disagrees with The Harvest to finally take a stand against those who practice with blind faith, like the devoted—fanatics of the gods—who aid the enforcers that protect our towns and preach to masses in our church. I spot one of them standing at the side by a wall, nodding along with everything my father spews. The man’s body is covered with painted symbols of the gods, wearing nothing but a simple brown tunic and breeches. I recognize him from the sermons I attended before I stopped coming to worship.
As my decay magic seeps under my skin, I am reminded of how precarious a situation I am in. At the last Harvest, I didn’t fully understand what was happening.
I tune out almost entirely as my father drones on about our origins, having memorized the entire lecture down to every word.
We were folk witches once and took our magic from nature. The humans from the other lands hunted us until our population dwindled. It was then that the gods we venerated surrendered their ethereal forms for mortal bodies to help us. With their empyreal powers, we found a haven in Dahryst—a continent protected by the Black Sea, and the Pistoren Ocean on the other side.
Except, all the Gods but Azkiel abandoned before the war finished, abandoning us to fend for ourselves. He saved us—supposedly—then vanished too, but not without a parting gift. A leader was needed, and The Harvest presented the perfect opportunity to offer blood as a tribute to him. Simultaneously, it serves to find the strongest of our age to become the next elder.
The corner of my mouth twitches as I stare at each of the elders. Their powers—siphoned through murder—give them the strength to place wards along our borders, to aid in the growth of our crops in the absence of the gods.
The elders want power, and so once every decade, they excuse murder for their own gain. After all, magic can only be absorbed by killing another on sacred ground, and Tenenocti Island is the only place where such a ritual can occur and is coincidentally within Death’s domain. Why else would they allow only a man and woman—aged between sixteen and twenty-four—from each coven to participate?
Drake had it right when he once explained that our magic is still malleable at this age. The elders hide behind their gods to keep people from rioting when their children are slaughtered in The Harvest.
I gaze around the portraits of the six gods and goddesses hanging in silver, ornate frames against dark stone. Essentria, the goddess of Creation, is vibrant in a golden robe. Her golden eyes are alight with flecks of green.
Nyxara, the Goddess of Destiny, is the most striking with purple eyes and silver hair. Volan, the God of Will, looks like a warrior, with his dark, pointed stare and black tattoos covering his muscular body.
Cyna, the God of Judgment, stares out of his frame with discerning green eyes, as if he is silently looking into our hearts. Astraea, the Goddess of Dreams, has an aura of innocence with her soft indigo eyes, flowing blue hair—her entire body a tapestry of paintings, depicting our history.
And then there’s him.
I stare at the portrait of Death. His silver eyes are tinged with black, as if the night sky is seeping into the stars.
I blink twice, the present flooding in as I hear Drake’s name uttered from my father’s lips.
“Drake is the culprit we seek.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, the hairs on the backs of my arms standing erect. I lean forward, gripping the pew in front of me. I lean forward, eyes wide.
A small smile carves my father’s lip when he looks at me. I scratch the side of my neck, suppressing a gulp, and force apathy into my expression. He steps back into line, and the only female elder takes his place at the front.
Her voice comes out raspier than I expected as she addresses the room. “We have yet to capture the criminal,” she says, relieving the panic squeezing around my heart. “However,” she continues, and my nails splinter into the wood, my knuckles white. “We are interrogating his family. We believe he is on the run, possibly attempting to leave Dahryst. I assure you, he will not get far.”
The icy cold seems to penetrate my bones while I decipher her words. They must have blocked travel from the coastlines. We are on an island, and there is only one way off—by ship.
