As for the interrogation of his family, we all know what that means.
The croakiness in her voice persists, even after she clears her throat. “Anyone seen to be aiding or abetting Drake Redding will be punished. If you see him, you must come to us immediately.”
A woman calls out from the front pew. “What about the other one?”
“The accomplice is from Azkiel’s Coven. We are unsure of their gender, but it is unlikely the two will separate,” she says, her tone wavering. The elders exchange looks, and my father casts a glance over at me, then quickly averts his gaze. “As of now, Drake Redding is our primary culprit, and the mastermind behind the attack.”
I almost laugh, but maintain my composure. If Drake were here, he would have found it amusing, too. They make it sound like some carefully thought-out battle.
Everist clears his throat, his presence commanding attention. His stoic expression reminds me of the statue we destroyed. His eyes, matte-black, sift across the room as though scanning our minds. I try to stay perfectly still as his probing gaze meets mine—the Sight Seeker.
Measuring each breath, his eyes linger on me, and I hold my defiant stance until he eventually shifts his attention elsewhere. “The Choosing will be different this year,” he states, every word an echo bouncing from the stone walls. “Because The God of Death has returned.”
A collective gasp fills the silence before the room erupts in chatter, and I freeze. A haze settles over my mind, and the room spins.
The God of Death is here.
Everist speaks again, hushing the room into silence. “Tomorrow, he will select the twelve to compete in The Harvest. Tonight, you will all come forward and volunteer your names again in the Offering.” He points at the stone basin, but I stop listening.
Bile climbs my throat. I know he’s real, but to me, he’s always been comparable to a myth, like a dark, omniscient presence that looms over Dahryst, promising protection in exchange for bloodshed.
Cheering sounds in my ears, as the world falls into slow motion. Hands clasp together from the congregation in prayer, rejoicing with smiles wider than I have ever seen from the people here.
I grip the pew, closing my eyes as my mind spins. Neither Drake nor I could have ever imagined this outcome from our plan. Now he’s on the run, and I am as good as dead. If Azkiel has returned to Ennismore, then he will uncover the hidden magic that dwells within me.
We were supposed to make things better, but I fear we’ve sealed our fates for the worst.
NINECalista
The elders dismiss everyone from the church, except those who will volunteer in the Offering.
I look around at all those supposedly volunteering to be chosen. Some, I recognize from Ennismore, others were brought in from other cities and towns across Dahryst by their families.
While it is supposed to be an honor to compete in the Harvest, I can’t believe anyone wants to volunteer. Either their families make them, or they have no choice. It’s a poorly kept secret that poorer families are indirectly threatened to have their resources taken away if they do not make their children of age put their names forth.
It is expected that we put our names in. Father wants to lead by example, although none of the others here are aware of how corrupt everything is.
Everist stands behind the basin, holding a long scroll. “Step up and announce your names as you cut your hand over the basin. Now, form a line.”
I glare at the basin. The Offering is sealed with blood magic—a contract holding those who volunteered accountable. If the witch or warlock is chosen for The Harvest and refuses to go, then all those they love will die.
What wonderful leaders we have!
The silence is deafening. Not even a whisper carries through the church as I shuffle forward with the other so-called volunteers, crowding the stone basin as the elders watch.
“I’m nervous,” Arabella whispers from behind me.
“Don’t be,” I say, but when her breaths settle evenly, I grab her hand. “This is just for show.”
She nods, and I turn to face the front. Blood is drawn from each of the chosen, their hisses and gulps filling the church after they speak their names. Most of them don’t stand a chance if they’re sent to Tenenocti.
A muscular boy steps forward, his dark brown eyes glaze over those around him. When his stare meets mine, my lips form a hard line. I remind myself that none of this is real, and that he isn’t someone I will need to fight.
He must be from one of the visiting families, because I haven’t seen him before. “Alaric Varwic,” he announces as he slices his hand over the stone basin, etched with the sigils of the gods.
My sister’s whisper catches in my ear. “At the very least, we’ll get to meet a god.”
“I can hardly wait,” I reply dryly, and place a hand over my stomach, willing the nausea away.
A girl I recognize from church sermons, Elenore, trembles in front of me as she stands over the stone basin, wincing at the sight of the blood. Shakily, she grabs the dagger by the silver handle carved into a knot, with sacred symbols on the blade, and lets out a small whimper.
“Here,” I say, placing my hand over hers. “It will only hurt for a second,” I promise, and she glances over her shoulder, her round brown eyes swimming with tears. “Remember, this doesn’t mean you will be chosen,” I add.
When she turns back, I grit my teeth, shooting a glare at my father. She can’t be older than eighteen. Fucking monsters, decorating us in symbols, while preparing to send us to the slaughter. Most of the people here are still children.
Carefully, Elenore hovers the blade above her left hand, over the palm.
“No,” I say and point at a finger that will hurt less.
She closes her eyes and softly whispers, “Thank you,” then digs into her skin, hissing as the blood pools.
“Elenore Amenbore,” she states shakily, then replaces the dagger before leaving to join the rest of her family from Astraea’s coven.
My sister smiles. “That was sweet.”
“It was necessary,” I correct her. “She was holding up the line.”
She rolls her eyes, then stands next to me. “Sure. Deep down, I know you care.”
