nestles closer, a rattle of pleasure vibrating its throat. Outside, the night air is warm, but within the stone walls of the throne room it is always cool. Our friend is grateful for our warmth, our affection. It is a simple creature without doubt or fear of the future. Its presence settles us.
In recent nights—when the weight of the souls depending on our success has bowed our shoulders like a mantle made of lead—our creatures have been our only comfort.
We will circle back to the Borderland woods, our cousin says, his fear making the words echo uncomfortably within our mind. We will search every—
No, Keetan, you will take your men to Goreman. We use our gentlest voice, earning a smile from our brother. Our friends have shown us the princess and her Kanvasol protector. They travel northeast. Now that she has failed to hire a mercenary army, we believe she will appeal to the exiles.
Then we will overcome them on the road, my queen, and—
You will allow them to travel in peace. We stroke the raven with a firmer pressure. We feel the hand of the goddess in this. We will send a messenger, warning the exiles to expect the princess in disguise. We will grant them favors and they will lure her in and take her peacefully, without the risk of harming the girl.
Can the exiles be trusted, my queen? Keetan frets. If the princess remains sheltered in the Feeding Hills, we may be unable to fetch her out in time.
Do not doubt our wisdom, Keetan. We still our fingers, fighting a wave of anger. Illestros wasn’t pleased that we let our anger get the better of us with the prince. Anger is beneath us, anger is her emotion, her weakness, and one day soon it will be her downfall. There will come a night when we will wrestle in the darkness with the princess and her anger for the forever crown, but that night has not yet come to pass.
We have been chosen by the goddess, we continue in a tone as smooth as altar glass, and we carry a thousand souls within us.
Yes, my queen. Keetan’s shame is clear. He carries only fifty souls and possesses only a fraction of our magic and foresight. Every spirit held within us gives us power … along with great responsibility.
We must succeed. We must usher in the age of reaping and deliver every soul—ogre and mortal—into the paradise of the underworld. If we fail, it is not only our own life we will forfeit but the treasures held tight within us as well.
Go to Goreman and make your presence known. We stand, carrying our raven as we descend the steps leading to the dais. We will write a letter for it to carry to the exiles tonight. With its strong wings, the creature will deliver our message and return to us long before the princess reaches the Feeding Hills. If you don’t, the girl may suspect something is amiss. We will send word on how to proceed when we have received the exiles’ acceptance of our terms. Good journey, cousin.
Yes, my queen.
The pressure at our temples eases as Keetan severs contact. We cross the room to where Illestros stands before the altar, whispering sacred words over a goblet of mead. The golden liquid has already been blessed with a drop of the offering’s blood.
Tonight, the offering is a young woman convicted of stealing milk from her neighbor’s cow, an urchin who has not stopped whimpering since the moment she was brought in.
We look down at the peasant in her filthy brown dress, not surprised to see her cowering before us, tugging frantically at the chain binding her shackled foot to the floor. She is afraid, as they all are, but she needn’t be. The prick of her finger was the only pain she’ll feel tonight. The worst is over. After so many ceremonies, we are deft at teasing a spirit from its body. We will slide her soul away as easy as pulling a key from a lock and fit her neatly within us like a beloved book settled on a shelf.
Our pain will be worse. The traditional marking—the coin tattoo that represents the treasure taken—is etched upon
In recent nights—when the weight of the souls depending on our success has bowed our shoulders like a mantle made of lead—our creatures have been our only comfort.
We will circle back to the Borderland woods, our cousin says, his fear making the words echo uncomfortably within our mind. We will search every—
No, Keetan, you will take your men to Goreman. We use our gentlest voice, earning a smile from our brother. Our friends have shown us the princess and her Kanvasol protector. They travel northeast. Now that she has failed to hire a mercenary army, we believe she will appeal to the exiles.
Then we will overcome them on the road, my queen, and—
You will allow them to travel in peace. We stroke the raven with a firmer pressure. We feel the hand of the goddess in this. We will send a messenger, warning the exiles to expect the princess in disguise. We will grant them favors and they will lure her in and take her peacefully, without the risk of harming the girl.
Can the exiles be trusted, my queen? Keetan frets. If the princess remains sheltered in the Feeding Hills, we may be unable to fetch her out in time.
Do not doubt our wisdom, Keetan. We still our fingers, fighting a wave of anger. Illestros wasn’t pleased that we let our anger get the better of us with the prince. Anger is beneath us, anger is her emotion, her weakness, and one day soon it will be her downfall. There will come a night when we will wrestle in the darkness with the princess and her anger for the forever crown, but that night has not yet come to pass.
We have been chosen by the goddess, we continue in a tone as smooth as altar glass, and we carry a thousand souls within us.
Yes, my queen. Keetan’s shame is clear. He carries only fifty souls and possesses only a fraction of our magic and foresight. Every spirit held within us gives us power … along with great responsibility.
We must succeed. We must usher in the age of reaping and deliver every soul—ogre and mortal—into the paradise of the underworld. If we fail, it is not only our own life we will forfeit but the treasures held tight within us as well.
Go to Goreman and make your presence known. We stand, carrying our raven as we descend the steps leading to the dais. We will write a letter for it to carry to the exiles tonight. With its strong wings, the creature will deliver our message and return to us long before the princess reaches the Feeding Hills. If you don’t, the girl may suspect something is amiss. We will send word on how to proceed when we have received the exiles’ acceptance of our terms. Good journey, cousin.
Yes, my queen.
The pressure at our temples eases as Keetan severs contact. We cross the room to where Illestros stands before the altar, whispering sacred words over a goblet of mead. The golden liquid has already been blessed with a drop of the offering’s blood.
Tonight, the offering is a young woman convicted of stealing milk from her neighbor’s cow, an urchin who has not stopped whimpering since the moment she was brought in.
We look down at the peasant in her filthy brown dress, not surprised to see her cowering before us, tugging frantically at the chain binding her shackled foot to the floor. She is afraid, as they all are, but she needn’t be. The prick of her finger was the only pain she’ll feel tonight. The worst is over. After so many ceremonies, we are deft at teasing a spirit from its body. We will slide her soul away as easy as pulling a key from a lock and fit her neatly within us like a beloved book settled on a shelf.
Our pain will be worse. The traditional marking—the coin tattoo that represents the treasure taken—is etched upon
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