“You may speak your last words,” the devoted declares.
Silent tears sliding down the man’s face are his only reply. Bloodshot eyes land on two sobbing boys wearing caps and dirty brown clothes, and as I look around, I notice their mother is not in attendance.
The devoted clears his throat. “May Cyna conclude the fate of your soul, and Azkiel guide you to the afterlife.”
The unmistakable sound of wood creaking followed by the whip of a rope sounds from the gallows, followed by a small scream.
I whip my head around as one boy fights his way through the swelling crowd. People gasp at the realization they must be his kin. Why we allow children to witness these executions is beyond me.
I slap my fingers over my mouth as the boy is dragged away by two men. The Gurger scales on their uniforms shimmer under the sun, and I realize they must be Enforcers. Our so-called muscle to keep order in our towns and villages.
Shaking my head, I make my way through the crowd. “Vile,” I snap, pushing my shoulder against two smiling women as they discuss the deceased man’s crimes.
I walk quickly, reaching the dwindling market. On the other side of the square, three people are lined up to enter the tent with Nyxara’s symbol over the door, impatient to see the threader from the Fatius Coven—a practiced foreteller of fates.
Next to it, a bread maker’s stall stands, where a tall woman with flour-dusted red waves greets me with a smile. Nodding at her, I hand her two knogs from my purse and grab a loaf of fresh bread, hoping this small gesture might bring a bit of comfort to Drake.
I must get him out. I can’t bear to imagine watching his execution next. The dark thought looms over me as I walk further, surveying my surroundings.
Smells of incense fade as I move unnoticed, sliding between cobblestone streets, to the edge of town until the paths clear, and nothing but silence accompanies me to the Incarcuri.
Long, brown ferns adorn the thinning grass around the uneven path, reaching out to the dark tree line of the forest. I gaze at the building, its tall, thick gray walls encompassed by the trees of Morcidea Forest.
Weathered stones, in various colors of gray, many bleached by the sun, make up the symmetrical building.
Small, rectangular windows, some narrower than others, line either side of the central entrance, protruding from the rest of the building. Moss covers much of the exterior, and ash floats from the sky, only adding to the eeriness. As I enter through tall gates that creak open as I approach, I am greeted by two enforcers in Cyna’s coven. Their dark irises penetrate my soul, as they place one hand on their poison-laced swords.
I clear my throat. “I’m here to visit Drake Redding.”
The first man, with dark hair and a light stubble, pulls out a piece of parchment. “Your name.”
“Calista Bellevue.”
The wrinkles deepen around his eyes as he glances down, then back at me. Even here, my family name is infamous. But I am not what is expected from the daughter of an elder—pious, obedient, or powerful, well, as far as they are aware.
The second enforcer steps forward, his armored uniform absorbing all light as he wears the scales of a gurger, a sea monster that dominates the Pistoren Sea. “Turn around.”
As I turn my back to them, the man’s hands frisk my torso, stomach and hips, and I squirm, despising every touch. Fortunately, he doesn’t linger in any spot. Finally, I face them, and the enforcer looks me up and down. “Does your father know you are here?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Not that it matters. I am free to visit with whom I like.”
I peer over the parchment, spotting Drake’s name.
“What’s that?” he asks, eyes latching onto the slab of bread. I run my finger over the glazed coating, then tilt my head.
“Bread,” I state, although my tone comes out far more condescending than I would have liked it.
“I know that,” he snaps back, his lips pulling into a tight line. “Why do you have it?”
“To eat,” I drawl, and he rolls his eyes.
“You can’t bring that in here.”
“What?” I glance at the other enforcer, as if he may overrule the decision, but he shakes his head. “No food. No weapons.”
“In that order?” I ask. “My father, Vaknor, gave it to me to give to Drake.”
They pause, then one says, “You may proceed,” the enforcer says, his tone laced with a frustration he attempts to conceal.
Muttering under my breath, I walk between them, then up the narrow path, towards the building with three sides casting a shadow over the courtyard. Desperate screams echo from the incarns inside—assumed criminals undergoing interrogation, and those deemed unfit for society.
I walk around a weathered fountain, the mossy waters thick with dirt, and a sense of doom washes over me. On spotting a smaller building with a chimney billowing smoke, my stomach churns. It’s clear that this is where they dispose of the bodies. Then, I realize—the Incarcuri isn’t a place where incarns are freed; it is where they are brought to die.
Ash floats up my nose, agitating my senses. I sneeze, then glance at the billowing chimney of the building, horrified.
Enforcers stand on either side of the black double doors, several daggers in their belts. They glance over at the enforcers behind me, and a chill creeps through the courtyard. Stepping aside, one knocks four times, pauses, then follows it with two more.
Foggy breaths leave my lips as I wring my hands, the air somehow colder here than in town.
A woman opens the door, her blue, orb-like eyes with silver flecks announcing her position within Astraea’s coven. She looks at the enforcers, then turns her gaze to me. “Name.”
“Calista Bellevue.”
She sighs, pulling her graying, blond strands over one shoulder. “The incarns’ name,” she clarifies, as if I should know.
“Drake Redding.”
A long wooden desk stands in the center of the bare foyer, chipped and dented with time. Flames flicker from a candelabra, illuminating the scattered papers, quills and ink. “This way,” she orders, not offering me a second glance.
