“Alaric,” she cries, and I groan under my breath. Her eyes roll around as her lids close, a cold sweat forming against her forehead.
“Leave her,” I command, but they lift her robes, then tear her dress beneath it, revealing her bloodied abdomen.
“I’m not going anywhere. She lives close to our house. I’m not going to leave her to die alone.”
I glance down, exhaling slowly as I assess the sacrifice’s blanched face. She’s lost too much blood. “You can’t save her.”
Something changes in Calista’s eyes before she gazes down at the girl. “I’m going to help you.”
The last moments of a mortal’s life are the most private and intrusive of times, where one can glimpse a mortal’s true self. But Calista doesn’t seem to care. Instead, she runs a hand over the girl’s forehead, slicking away the sweat, and pushing back some stray strands bouncing over the sacrifice’s eyes.
“It’s okay,” Cali says with a softness I’ve not heard before. “You’re going to be okay. The pain will go away soon.”
I watch as the girl concedes to death, her muscles relaxing as decay magic seeps into her bones, ash consuming her until she is gone.
“She was barely eighteen,” she says, her voice croaky, bloodshot eyes narrowed on me. “A child!”
I shake my head. “She reminded you of your sister, that is all,” I say, recalling their similar, soft features. “We cannot waste time.”
“This,” she states, her shaky tone increasing an octave, as she points at the sacrifice’s body, “is the reality of your disgusting tournament.”
“Your sister’s death will be your reality unless you pull yourself together.”
“You let us almost die back there.” She shakes her head, then pushes past me. “You put my sister on this island, and you have still failed.”
“I helped you! I showed you that you are not powerless.”
She scoffs. “Is that what that was? Because you sure seemed to enjoy the show.”
“Think me the villain,” I say. “I do not care.”
“Good, because that makes two of us.”
THIRTY-TWOCalista
We cut our way through thickets of vines and bramble and follow Death into the forest. My boots crunch over pieces of bone, either from an animal or a person.
We walk over the uneven, mossy mattress, to the bridge over the river. Then, he leads into another slice of forest.
I should feel guilty for shouting at Drake, but it’s so hard to do so when he didn’t go after Ari. He knows me well enough to know I would never want him to choose my life over my sister’s.
Then there’s Azkiel, who made me feel something for a moment. It was just lust, nothing more, but he used that to lure me close. I withhold the urge to sink my dagger into his chest, only because he’s my best chance at finding Ari.
Drake’s whisper carries into my ear. “I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t think Death would save you, and I couldn’t let you die.”
An eerie silence settles over the trees as we carve our path toward Azkiel’s temple. “We will talk later.”
As I cast my eyes around the maze of trees, a sense of doom washes over me. In the distance, waves crash from the river separating the island and us.
Every aching, tired bone in my body was no match for the adrenaline coursing through my veins, pushing me to keep going despite the heaviness of my recently acquired magic. Unlike the decay magic, my newfound powers rebel inside of me, refusing to submit to its new owner.
Eleanore. Isolda. Cordelia. Briar. Rourne. I list their names together for the first time, then add in Edwardo, and whoever else was killed by Edwardo. The townspeople sing songs of the fallen of each Harvest, the elders wearing the names as a badge of honor. I imagine Ari’s name, or Drake’s included in sonnets or odes, and my heart stammers.
“We’ll find her,” Drake whispers, as if he can feel my panic. I’ve felt so distant from him since arriving here—the island of fucking terrors.
I hold on to the hope that Ari is alive. Surely, if she died, Azkiel would have felt it. He told me he could sense the dead, and this is his domain. While he doesn’t fully believe she is the chosen one, he won’t take the chance of her dying. I should have gotten her away before The Choosing. We could all be on a ship right now to another land, even one filled with non-magical humans who want to kill us. We could have hidden, or even gone to the mountain courts in Dahryst.
I’m responsible for Ari. We were closer when we were younger, and we would sneak into our mother’s room to pretend we made potions with her imported perfumes. Mother would get so mad, but her anger was worth it. Those memories keep the darkness of my magic at bay.
I turn hastily, following Death as he makes a sharp turn into yet more forest.
I seldom pray, but now, having confirmed that what I knew was true—that the gods are evil—I am suddenly aware of how comforting prayer was in the difficult moments. Because whenever I was alone and afraid, there was something soothing about asking a higher power for strength. Even after I stopped believing they were good, I wasn’t certain, and that glimmer of hope that I was wrong gave me a reason to keep fighting.
As I play a tug of war with my conscience, a twig hits me in the face as I attempt to push through a narrow overgrowth. An unexpected laugh escapes my lips, and Drake’s eyes widen. Azkiel pauses for half a second before continuing to walk, and I slap my hand over my mouth. Why the fuck did I laugh? There is nothing humorous about this at all, yet the irony and amusement of it all plasters a smile over my lips.
Great, I’ve lost my fucking mind.
Azkiel’s voice slices through the silence, his tone as smooth as the shadows clinging to him. “You’re dehydrated,” he states, explaining my sudden outburst.
My brows furrow, and I’m suddenly very aware of how dry my mouth is. I dart my tongue between my cracking lips, then attempt to swallow, but only the tiniest bit of saliva coats my throat. “I’ll find water soon.”
Drake only shoots me an incredulous look as we keep walking, his eyes sweeping over Azkiel’s cloak clinging to me. My calves burn by the time we finally reach the temple, transcendent amongst groves of thick vegetation.
Drake halts next to me, his jaw slacked as we take in the towering, stone pillars reaching through the trees, strangled by parasitic plants.
I recognize two of the rare species from my books—Tempest root, sprawling over the uneven, cracked steps leading up to the entrance, and Nightmor, orange berries attached to thickets of brambles covering a stone effigy of Azkiel.
Moss covers the tan stonework, glimmering under the fading light of the moon. Vines strangle the pillars, but the majestic, fragmentary stone remains are only enhanced by nature reclaiming the structure. With every step toward the double brass doors, my heart pounds and breath hitches.
