A Moonplume.
Another line surrounds the entire image, silver like my unwanted companion coiled at my side, Saiza’s finger tracing it. “It was foretold that the Fate Herder would bring you to us. That your offspring will tether the moons to the sky,” she says with a hitch of awe. “Forever.”
My heart thuds to a stop, gaze rising to meet hers. “Well, that’s a load of spangle shit,” I snap, jerking my chin at the paintings. “I am no Kholu, and I will never carry offspring.”
The words are a weapon hacking through the space between us, their honed edge whetted on my stony heart.
Never.
The Fate Herder cracks an eye open, watching me.
“Never,” I repeat, infusing every ounce of condemnation into my tone as I meet its slit stare.
It blows a deep, rumbling breath that puffs against my face, and something settles within my chest. Like it just reached through me and stroked my frazzled heartstrings.
Might just be me, but I get the potent sense that it doesn’t want me here for … that.
“I know not of this spangle you speak of,” Saiza says, “but the Sól is never wrong. She drew this foretelling many cycles ago, and she herself has called you Kholu. The Fate Herder escorted you here, so the Tookah Trial will proceed, as it was ordained by the Creators themselves and approved by our Oah and Oah-ee. King and Queen in your tongue.”
Another trial?
I groan.
Wonder how many more of these I have to stand through before I finally get to kill Rekk Zharos?
I glare at the problematic Fate Herder still watching me with lazy intrigue, its tail flicking back and forth. “This is your fault.”
A vibrato dong rattles the air, its echo tapering before striking again, making my skin pebble. Another female steps into my circle of relative privacy, carrying a bowl of soapy water.
“May I remove your clothes and prepare you for the trial?” Saiza asks, and I sigh, reaching for the hem of my oversized shirt.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Let’s get this over with.”
The sooner I’m cleansed, the sooner I can be done with this trial, the sooner I can leave.
Hopefully.
A length of silk is passed around my protective ring of females, draped like a curtain before Saiza helps me out of my stolen clothes, then rinses my hair and sponges me down—painting lathered sweeps over my body to the daunting beat of the gong.
“You have beautiful shape,” she boasts, patting my skin down with an absorbent bit of cloth. “Such lovely curves.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, mind elsewhere.
Another.
Fucking.
Trial.
What are they even trialing me for? It’s not like I murdered any of them.
I don’t think.
Perhaps they want to question me on my procreation intentions, given they think I’m going to magically produce some world-saving offspring?
Better not. I take a tonic every phase that renders my womb inhospitable and have no intention of missing a dose.
Streaks of blood are slicked across my skin by two other females before a long strip of bloodred silk is draped around my waist and knotted. Another shred is wrapped around my breasts, a string laden with copper rods pushed over my head and settled atop my bust.
The gong sounds again—swiftly followed by a rapid foray of beats.
The curtain drops, my band of privacy dissolves, and I see the two painted warriors watching me with honed regard. I’m about to ask Saiza if they’re the ones who are trialing me, but then the Fate Herder gets right in my face and nudges me to a stand, smearing some of the freshly painted blood.
The crowd begins to disperse, funneling through the exit, my fluffy non-friend herding me in the same direction while uncertainty churns in my chest, making it feel tight.
Constricted.
Pick something.
Hone my focus.
Don’t fucking drown.
I hum my calming tune, stare narrowing on the flow of folk before me as I count my steps, imagining each one brings me a little bit closer to that mystical fucking word that’s always just out of reach …
Freedom.
I’m herded through a warren of tunnels to the beat of the pounding gong, the thick, stagnant air becoming easier to inhale only moments before we spill into a big, dusty crater. My eyes bulge at the impossible height and width—large enough to cram four coliseums in here and still have room to move.
It’s as though something collided with the ground with such velocity the stone was displaced.
Frowning, I recall Kaan’s earlier words …
I spent most of my adolescence and a number of my later phases as a warrior of the Johkull Clan. They have always nested close to these mountains and recently claimed the crater formed by the fallen Sabersythe moon, Orvah.
Guess that’s what this is. Orvah’s crater. The small moon that fell a little over eight phases ago.
Folk pour into the space behind me and my prowling Herder like gushing water, and my mind churns as I take in the chapped surroundings.
There are tents dotted about the circumference, each sturdy structure consisting of four wooden poles plowed into the ground and a flap of patched leather stretched between them—forming a roof. They cast rectangular shadows occupied by woven rugs and many clay urns etched with glowing runes.
Between the tents are a number of wooden racks stacked with weapons, most of which I’ve never seen before: batons with a length of chain attached to the end, topped with spiked balls that look like they could shatter a skull; giant hooked swords; and small flat blades with pearly teeth mounted around the edge. So many weapons it makes Ruse’s armory look juvenile.
The crater’s blanketed with a stretch of sand, though when I look at the grains sifting through my toes as I’m escorted around the perimeter, I notice gray shards amongst the rusty majority.
Iron. To nullify those who can hear the elemental songs, no doubt.
I frown, then cast my stare at the powdery sky threaded with the aurora’s wispy silver tendrils, a scatter of inky Sabersythe moons perched in the distance. The crater’s lip bears a crisscross of fraying rope heavy with skulls—most sun-bleached. One with shreds of decomposing meat and tufts of hair still hanging off the bone, a small tawny-colored bird perched on it.
Pecking at it.
My heart skips a beat.
Unlike the skulls in the tent we just came from, these ones are not from fallen animals. They have rounded heads and tapered canines, the fresher one retaining the rotten remnants of a tapered ear.
They’re fae.
Creators … This is a battle ring.
Is that what my trial is? Am I expected to fight?
The tips of my fingers tingle, unease slithering through me like a serpent.
The gong continues to sound as I’m guided further around the crater’s circumference, past tent after tent, the folk before us threading into a large dome-shaped one similar to those I saw in the chest cavity of the fallen dragon. Though this one’s much bigger than them, and with many entrances, each framed by more of those intricately crafted archways.
Saiza stops before one opening, pulling a woven flower from one of the few baskets dotted around the tent, offering it to me. “Would you like to honor Orvah?”
My heart leaps so high up my throat the next words are choked. “The fallen Sabersythe?”
Saiza nods, smiling softly. “He did not break apart upon impact. It took many warriors to roll him to the crater’s side. We now pay him great respect in the hopes that no other moon will fall on our place of living.”
Pulse pounding hard and fast, I accept the flower, cutting a glance back at my oscillating Herder who cranks its muzzle and yawns again, skulking toward one of the doorways and curling into a sleepy ball.
Guess that’s permission.
Swallowing, I push my hand between the tent’s flaps, steady my breath, then step inside, drawing on the hot, humid air trapped beneath the pelts.
My heart stops.