by Adalyn Grace
“I’m so glad I found you before the performance,” Aunt Kalea says. “How do you feel?”
For as long as I can remember, Aunt Kalea’s hands have always been the softest, warmest ones I’ve ever known. She cups them around my arms, holding me close so she can inspect me with molten eyes. They’re the same eyes as Father’s, but significantly less stern. And though she does well at masking her expression, worry rests in the tightness of her breaths and the hitch of her words. If she’s to keep her lavish life on Mornute, she can’t afford for me to make any mistakes tonight. And I can’t afford to, either.
Should I fail to demonstrate control over my magic and prove I’ve tamed the beast within me, I’ll be held until Aunt Kalea’s proven she can become the throne’s successor. Given that the law dictates a Montara without fully controlled soul magic cannot remain free, I can’t ignore the possibility that I could even be executed if I’m deemed too much of a risk. Our magic is too dangerous to not be fully controlled.
“Like I’ve been training my whole life for this,” I say. Aunt Kalea searches my eyes for another long moment, and there’s a flash of concern before she pulls me in for a firm hug.
“You can do this,” she whispers, her thick curls tickling my neck. “No one’s more ready for this than you.”
Though I know she’s right, the anxiety that’s been gnawing at me since the puppet show is building. I force myself to smile at her, trying to snuff it out.
Only after Aunt Kalea draws back does Casem hesitantly step forward. “I don’t mean to rush you,” he says, “but it’s time for Amora to get going.”
“Of course.” Aunt Kalea nods, tucking a soft brown curl behind her ear. I try not to stare at the lines of concern crinkled between her brows, or think about how both our futures hinge on whether I deliver a proper performance.
She kisses my cheek before peeling herself away. But before she lets go of my hand, her eyes capture mine, and I’m not prepared for what I see within them. No longer are her eyes the rich brown that match Father’s—they flash a bright, piercing pink, there for one moment and back to brown the next.
“Do your best.” Aunt Kalea’s smile trembles. “Please. For the kingdom.”
The anxiety doesn’t snuff out; it surges until it’s like hands around my throat. The noise I make as her hands slip from mine is hardly human. The ground beneath me is like the sea, swaying as her words sink in.
Aunt Kalea’s learned enchantment magic.
I am no longer one of two possible heirs; I am the only possible heir. Should I fail, there will be no one left to protect Visidia from the vengeance of the beast within the Montara bloodline.
Aunt Kalea showing me this was a warning—should she be forced to accept Aridian soul magic, it’ll be her second magic. The bond with the beast will be severed.
“You were supposed to wait.” My words are as shaky as my trembling hands. “How could you do this?”
“It was an accident.” Her eyes are wet when she reaches back out for me, but I refuse to look at them for another second. I take Casem’s arm. His eyes are narrowed with uncertainty, not having seen her use enchantment magic.
“Take me to the gardens,” I tell him, needing to get away from her as the magic within me stirs. “Now.” Casem obeys without hesitation.
It’s only a short walk to the gardens’ entrance, and my head is still swirling with a thousand thoughts when we arrive. I have to try my hardest to push them to the side and focus on the task at hand, just as everyone has been telling me to do. I can’t let myself be distracted by her betrayal.
Tonight, I must be perfect.
A place of worship, the gardens sit atop the tallest peak in all of Arida, about two miles north of the palace. The entrance is through a cavern that’s covered by heavy vines and thick ivy that Casem pulls back so that I can enter without snagging my adornments.
“You’ve got five minutes before others arrive,” he says as I duck into the cavern, greeted by the bioluminescent flora that coats the walls and helps guide my way into the gardens.
The moment I step into it, the sight steals my breath, as it always does.
These gardens are beautiful in the daytime, but their true magnificence shines beneath the stars.
A field of untamed flowers stretches out before me, some of them tall enough that they brush against my satchel, while others drip from trees in perfect spirals. Much of the flora is bioluminous, petals and bulbs glowing in brilliant shades of greens, pinks, blues, and purples.
I brush my hands across the bulb of a flower that’s taller than my hip, and it rocks back as if in surprise, its petals unfurling at my touch. They shimmer as they open, stretching awake.
Behind them, at the back of the garden, rests a small waterfall that glows as brightly as the flowers, creating breathtaking scenery that many travel from all over the kingdom to see.
At the base of the waterfall, a flat stone slab with a fire pit carved into the center has been erected as a stage for my performance. I take a seat on the edge of one side as voices begin to stir behind me. From the corner of my eye I see my parents enter the gardens, but I don’t turn to them in case Aunt Kalea is there, too.
I press a hand to my chest and draw in a long breath to steady my heart. It doesn’t help much, so I run my finger across the lip of the satchel and bow my head, praying that the gods steady me. It’s a familiar feeling, one that reassures me even as anticipation nips at my skin and buzzes around me. More and more people enter the gardens, heating the air with their chatter and creating a space that’s so full of different colors and styles that it’s dizzying to look at. Before them I make myself stand tall, refusing to let anyone see just how deeply my nerves run.
I can’t think of Ferrick, somewhere in this crowd with a ring I’m to receive the moment this performance is over.
I can’t think of Kaven, trying to start a rebellion within my kingdom. Or of Kerost, broken and suffering from the storms.
And I refuse to think of Aunt Kalea, who will be Visidia’s demise should I fail tonight.
But I won’t let that happen.
I unhook the satchel from my hip and ready the teeth and bones that wait within.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’ve spent weeks preparing the contents in my satchel, ensuring every tooth and small bone is ready to be wound with a hair from the prisoner I’m to work my magic on.
Because while this may be a demonstration of magic, it’s also an execution.
I hear the rattle of chains before I see the prisoners they belong to. Ten of them—seven men and three women—and all branded on the neck with two bold Xs, the mark of someone tried and convicted for murder. Tonight, some of their brands are fake.
The guards drag them through the crowd of onlookers and to the base of the stone slab I’m perched upon. Then the guards back away, leaving the prisoners standing below me with fear and rage warring in their eyes.
My magic works in two ways—the ethereal soul reading, and the physical ability to end a soul through death. These prisoners are here to test the first side of my magic; I’m to determine whom I’m to execute by finding the irredeemable soul among the group.
Never in my life has an execution been public. Father and I perform them annually, late at night and deep within the underground prison, taking only the souls of Visidia’s most unforgivable prisoners to satisfy and quell our magic. For a person to have been selected for this demonstration, their soul would have to be beyond redemption.
The first in line is an older woman whose dark eyes catch mine sharply. I find my magic waiting in my belly and pull small pieces from it, waking the beast. Its warmth licks my skin, inviting me deeper into it by connecting me to this woman’s soul.
Magic spreads welcome heat through my veins and across my temples, and I sink into the power, relishing it. My vision fogs before quickly sharpening to reveal an entire garden of souls before me. They’re the colors of clouds—some like a threatening storm and othe
rs the clearest day—and they dance with the wispy motions of smoke. I press my nails into my palms for focus, and home in on the soul of the woman before me.
It’s like a dead starfish—faded, graying, rough, but ultimately still something that was once beautiful. She’s older, and with her age there’s been pain and hardships, enough to muddle and crack her soul.
This woman’s a fake. Someone only here to test me.
I step past her and move to the next prisoner, assessing his misty soul. It’s clouded by greed and wrath, and stained with the signs of murder. But he has remorse for the wrongs he’s committed. He feels his guilt, which means he’s not the one.
Swiftly but carefully moving through the line, magic scorches my core as I search soul after soul.
I know he’s the one the moment I find him. On the surface his gaze is cool, but the deeper I dig, the more rotted his soul becomes. It’s jagged and purpled like a bruise, peeling away at the edges and on its way to fading entirely. The wickedness of it chills me to the bone.
This man’s soul shows the tarnish of someone who has committed the foulest crimes imaginable, worse even than murder. Empty white space shines bright behind the peeling edges, telling me that there’s no going back for him. He holds no remorse for his choices, nor any sympathy for his victims.
“Him.”
Two guards step forward to lift the man onto the stone slab, while the other prisoners are pulled back. A few of them sigh in relief.
Beneath my lashes I peek up at Father. He nods, just barely, and I relax in knowing I’ve already succeeded with the first half of this performance. I picked the right prisoner, and now it’s time to prove mastery over the physical side of my magic.
“What’s your name?” I draw my dagger from its sheath on my thigh and use it to cut a handful of the man’s hair.
His answer comes in a voice so hoarse he has to cough to get it out. “Aran.”
“Aran,” I echo, “I have looked into your soul, and I have seen not only its corruption, but the pleasure you feel from the chaos and pain you’ve caused. You have no remorse for the crimes that have led you here, and I’ve found your soul too far gone to be repaired.”
Chills roll through my spine when he tips his head back and smiles. I try not to wonder who he killed, or if his family is watching from the crowd. As the future ruler of this kingdom, I cannot pity that family, and they know it. Aran certainly didn’t pity the families of his victims.
Silence builds as I steady my nervous breaths, strike a flint, and let the flames of the fire pit flare between us. “Do you have any last words?”
Aran spits at my feet, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I wrap the sheared hair around one of the teeth in my pile and skim my nail across it. His jaw twitches as he instinctively runs his tongue along the top of his teeth, and I know the magic’s working when I see the very moment fear settles into his bones.
“All right, then.” I hold the tooth above the fire. “Let’s begin.”
I toss the tooth into the flames and the man seizes violently, spitting up a puddle of blood. In the middle of that blood is a tooth that I crouch to pick up, my body pulsing as the magic blazes within me. I sink into the power.
This physical side of my magic is based on equivalent exchange. If I want to hurt someone’s bones, I need to offer a bone first—any bone, but soul bound by part of the person who I want to use my magic on. Tonight, I use Aran’s hair. For everything that’s taken, an equal payment must be given, which is why no one will die until I use their blood.
I could end him slowly, if I wanted to. I could break bone after bone, or drain his blood until he’s nothing but a sack of flesh.
But I get no pleasure in these deaths. It’s my duty as a Montara to use my magic, or the beast within me will get stronger and try to take control. And so Father and I choose one prisoner a year each—the worst of the worst—to help contain our magic.
I make their deaths quick and as painless as I can; but in order to do so I need several ounces of their blood, which is where the teeth come in. Though I could use anything to get the blood—an arm, a leg, an eye—making someone lose a few teeth is the most humane way I know to get the amount I need.
As I work, I know without a doubt that no one will be able to question my skill. I’m in full control of the beast and its magic that rips through my veins. Aran’s blood flows steadily from his mouth as I offer the fire another tooth, and his eyes bulge with fear.
Confident, I peer sideways at the faces of my people and stand tall, wanting them to see me. To see their heir to the throne; their princess, who has spent the entirety of her life mastering this magic not for herself, but for them.
But as my focus centers on the crowd, they don’t watch me with the pride or awe I expect. Horror plagues their faces.
I catch sight of a man covering his daughter’s eyes, face twisted in shock. The replica of Cato’s knife trembles in her hands.
And then I see Aunt Kalea, her lips curled with disgust for a magic she’s never wanted. In my imagination, I see her eyes flickering colors, and have to still my trembling hands before anyone can notice.
I’m doing everything that I am meant to do to fulfill my duty, and yet there’s no respect or love in the eyes of Visidia. There’s only fear and revulsion.
My hands hesitate over the fire as the confidence I built like armor around me shatters. Everything I’ve done has been for them. And yet … my own people fear me.
I clutch my chest as the realization buries me, breaths tight. I watch each drop of blood splatter from Aran’s lips to the ground. I hear the sharp intakes of breath around me, and feel the weight of my people’s terror pressing down on me, so heavy that I can’t breathe. Panic climbs from my stomach to my throat, rising and building and clawing.
My attention slips from my magic as I take in the reaction of my people, and the magic within me lurches. This is what it’s been waiting for; my control slips, and the beast springs.
The magic sinks its fangs into me deeper than ever. The once comforting warmth now burns up my fingertips and spreads through my body like wildfire, tearing me apart. It’s as though I’m breathing through a reed, hardly able to find enough breath to fill my lungs. I shove my shaking hands against my sides and try to center myself against the hundreds of fearful faces that look back at me.
But I can’t do it. The magic consumes me.
Raw, urgent power thrums through every crevice of my being as I smear my blood-coated thumb across the prisoner’s tooth, feeling the heaviness of his life force pulsate beneath the tips of my fingers. I toss it into the flames, then take a bone from my satchel and do the same. Aran screams as the bone in his finger twists and snaps. But I don’t so much as flinch as I find another bone and a handful of teeth. I toss them into the fire and rip my way into and through the prisoner’s body, tearing it apart inch by inch.
More gasps sound from the audience, along with indiscernible yells of protest as Aran chokes on the teeth that fall from his mouth. But the noise hardly reaches me through the haze. I don’t feel the heat of the fire against my cheeks, or smell the flame charring my hair as I take those teeth, blood and all, to replenish my satchel.
“Your soul is wicked,” I hear myself telling Aran as he digs his nails into the ground and gasps for breath. “You don’t deserve a quick death.”
The beast whispers mercilessly in my head, telling me to rid the island of this tainted man, and then to find others. Wipe his soul from the earth, and destroy the rest of the prisoners, too. And then why stop at the prisoners? Every soul is wicked in some way, so why not take them all?
Breathless, I’m drawn to the pile of bones at my side. Beads of cold sweat trail down my neck as I snatch one, wind it with his hair, and dip it into his blood. The fire lashes before me, fervent and seething with hunger. I offer the bone, and it splits and cracks as the flames gobble it up.
Aran’s scream grates against his worn throat as each unbroken bone in his fing
er snaps one at a time. Even with the pounding of the waterfall behind us, his sobs carry through the gardens.
“Mercy.” He spits up blood with every garbled word. “Please, by the gods, mercy.”
“The gods do not listen to the pleas of the wicked,” I hear myself say. “And neither do I.”
Somewhere in the distance voices shout, but I don’t care what they say. I let my magic eat its way through him, throwing bone after bone into the fire until Aran is nothing more than a heap of mangled limbs on the stone slab. His contorted body lies broken, limbs impossibly twisted. He’s misshapen clay I’ve molded to my will and painted with blood.
I prepare for another strike when a hand grips my shoulder. I turn, snarling at the molten brown eyes that stare back at me. It takes me a moment before I realize they belong to Father. His eyes are wet, and my skin itches with discomfort.
“Amora.” It’s a desperate plea that settles into my bones and quenches the fiery magic. I sway as my vision flickers, the haze fading. “Please, you have to stop.”
The crowd surrounding us roils, screaming distorted sounds that make my brain feel as though it’s being pinched together. I focus solely on Father instead, using him as an anchor to drag myself back into reality. The magic within hisses its protest, baring fangs as it fights to maintain control. I suffocate within its hold, choking as I rein the magic back.
Father holds me tight, strong fingers digging into my skin harder and harder until my vision clears and I gag on the stench of blood. I begin to shake as I take in the stains on my palms and fingertips, the smoke scalding my lungs. The stones beneath me sway as the realization hits: I lost control of my magic.
Dizziness makes my weight betray me, and I collapse to my knees.
I let loose the beast, and it stole my senses until it claimed me entirely.
Aran lies before me, dead. He no longer looks human, all shredded flesh and mangled limbs. I clench my hands to the dirt as I try to recognize him, but it’s useless. When used correctly, my magic is meant to give someone a swift death. But there was nothing swift about this; Aran was tortured and maimed.