Page 22 of Night of Death and Flowers

Except, all the Gods but Azkiel abandoned before the war finished, abandoning us to fend for ourselves. He saved us—supposedly—then vanished too, but not without a parting gift. A leader was needed, and The Harvest presented the perfect opportunity to offer blood as a tribute to him. Simultaneously, it serves to find the strongest of our age to become the next elder.

The corner of my mouth twitches as I stare at each of the elders. Their powers—siphoned through murder—give them the strength to place wards along our borders, to aid in the growth of our crops in the absence of the gods.

The elders want power, and so once every decade, they excuse murder for their own gain. After all, magic can only be absorbed by killing another on sacred ground, and Tenenocti Island is the only place where such a ritual can occur and is coincidentally within Death’s domain. Why else would they allow only a man and woman—aged between sixteen and twenty-four—from each coven to participate?

Drake had it right when he once explained that our magic is still malleable at this age. The elders hide behind their gods to keep people from rioting when their children are slaughtered in The Harvest.

I gaze around the portraits of the six gods and goddesses hanging in silver, ornate frames against dark stone. Essentria, the goddess of Creation, is vibrant in a golden robe. Her golden eyes are alight with flecks of green.

Nyxara, the Goddess of Destiny, is the most striking with purple eyes and silver hair. Volan, the God of Will, looks like a warrior, with his dark, pointed stare and black tattoos covering his muscular body.

Cyna, the God of Judgment, stares out of his frame with discerning green eyes, as if he is silently looking into our hearts. Astraea, the Goddess of Dreams, has an aura of innocence with her soft indigo eyes, flowing blue hair—her entire body a tapestry of paintings, depicting our history.

And then there’s him.

I stare at the portrait of Death. His silver eyes are tinged with black, as if the night sky is seeping into the stars.

I blink twice, the present flooding in as I hear Drake’s name uttered from my father’s lips.

“Drake is the culprit we seek.”

Every muscle in my body tenses, the hairs on the backs of my arms standing erect. I lean forward, gripping the pew in front of me. I lean forward, eyes wide.

A small smile carves my father’s lip when he looks at me. I scratch the side of my neck, suppressing a gulp, and force apathy into my expression. He steps back into line, and the only female elder takes his place at the front.

Her voice comes out raspier than I expected as she addresses the room. “We have yet to capture the criminal,” she says, relieving the panic squeezing around my heart. “However,” she continues, and my nails splinter into the wood, my knuckles white. “We are interrogating his family. We believe he is on the run, possibly attempting to leave Dahryst. I assure you, he will not get far.”

The icy cold seems to penetrate my bones while I decipher her words. They must have blocked travel from the coastlines. We are on an island, and there is only one way off—by ship.

As for the interrogation of his family, we all know what that means.

The croakiness in her voice persists, even after she clears her throat. “Anyone seen to be aiding or abetting Drake Redding will be punished. If you see him, you must come to us immediately.”

A woman calls out from the front pew. “What about the other one?”

“The accomplice is from Azkiel’s Coven. We are unsure of their gender, but it is unlikely the two will separate,” she says, her tone wavering. The elders exchange looks, and my father casts a glance over at me, then quickly averts his gaze. “As of now, Drake Redding is our primary culprit, and the mastermind behind the attack.”

I almost laugh, but maintain my composure. If Drake were here, he would have found it amusing, too. They make it sound like some carefully thought-out battle.

Everist clears his throat, his presence commanding attention. His stoic expression reminds me of the statue we destroyed. His eyes, matte-black, sift across the room as though scanning our minds. I try to stay perfectly still as his probing gaze meets mine—the Sight Seeker.

Measuring each breath, his eyes linger on me, and I hold my defiant stance until he eventually shifts his attention elsewhere. “The Choosing will be different this year,” he states, every word an echo bouncing from the stone walls. “Because The God of Death has returned.”

A collective gasp fills the silence before the room erupts in chatter, and I freeze. A haze settles over my mind, and the room spins.

The God of Death is here.

Everist speaks again, hushing the room into silence. “Tomorrow, he will select the twelve to compete in The Harvest. Tonight, you will all come forward and volunteer your names again in the Offering.” He points at the stone basin, but I stop listening.

Bile climbs my throat. I know he’s real, but to me, he’s always been comparable to a myth, like a dark, omniscient presence that looms over Dahryst, promising protection in exchange for bloodshed.

Cheering sounds in my ears, as the world falls into slow motion. Hands clasp together from the congregation in prayer, rejoicing with smiles wider than I have ever seen from the people here.

I grip the pew, closing my eyes as my mind spins. Neither Drake nor I could have ever imagined this outcome from our plan. Now he’s on the run, and I am as good as dead. If Azkiel has returned to Ennismore, then he will uncover the hidden magic that dwells within me.

We were supposed to make things better, but I fear we’ve sealed our fates for the worst.

NINE

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