Page 33 of Threaded

His medium length, shaggy hair was a bright red, his skin freckled so thoroughly it gave him the appearance of a golden tan. Eyes of bottle green met her own, and a fiery grin spread across his roguishly handsome face.

“My name is Quentin, My Queen. And on this day, and on every day of my life, I will answer your call. I swear my life, my sword, my shield, and my soul to you. I promise to be your armor against the world and to guard your back against those who may wish this kingdom harm.”

The way he spoke, with an earned arrogance and fierceness, had her eyebrow ticking up slightly.

She liked this one. He seemed like a cocky bastard.

She smiled back at him, letting some of her own wildness seep into her gaze.

“Welcome to my court, Quentin.”

Quentin didn’t wait for her hand before rising, instead extending his arm to her. She couldn’t help the slight giggle that left her lips as she slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow. Together, they walked back to the dais, and just like Sebastian, he left her at the foot of the steps, moving to stand opposite Sebastian at the altar. The two men nodded slightly to each other, slipping into the roles they’d trained for their whole lives.

Mariah selected her next four Armature much as she had Sebastian and Quentin. The gold and silver magic within her alternated which warrior it chose, but the light filtering out of her skin still never changed. After Quentin, the golden threads selected a younger man with shaggy, tawny hair like a lion’s man, his rich brown eyes filled with steady, watchful strength as he introduced himself to his queen as Drystan. Next, another man with dark hair and hazel eyes who looked very much like Sebastian, only slightly younger, was chosen by the wild silver magic and called himself Matheo. Gold took back control with the next pick, selecting Trefor, whose short blonde hair and sea-green eyes easily placed him as having ties to the coastal peoples of Ettervan. Finally, Feran was selected by the silver threads, a caramel-skinned man of obvious Kreah heritage, his braided dark hair pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck.

The first six selections breezed by Mariah, the magic flowing so smoothly to her, to her new Armature, and then back again. It wasn’t long before she was back standing upon that dais, her six selected Armature standing at its base, their eyes already trained on her in the same way she’d seen Ryenne’s Armature watch her.

It was now time for her final selection. One more, and she would have her full Armature, that last barricade to make her near untouchable in this new world she’d found herself in.

As she plunged back down into herself for the last time, ready to be greeted by threads of gold to make that final pick, she found something she wasn’t expecting.

Where those threads of magic had, before, been conversing, working together to make alternating selections, it was as if they suddenly couldn’t reach an agreement, now appearing to almost bicker together as silver and gold wound around each other in the depths of her soul.

It almost reminded her of how siblings fought.

Mariah pushed the thought down, forcing her mind to focus on the final task at hand.

Who is my shield?

When before, those threads of magic had responded instantly, this time they didn’t stop their squabble, or even notice her presence there with them. They continued to twist and turn around each other, fighting for the power of that last Selection.

As she watched them bicker and swirl, an image flashed through her mind. An image of a dark-haired male with wild blue eyes leaning against a wall in the shadows of the palace stables. Of the look of shock that had passed across his face, quickly covered up by cold ambivalence.

Right then, just as the picture of those tanzanite eyes blazed into her mind, everything around her stilled. The silver and gold threads ceased their warring, turning their attentionoutwardto look at Mariah where she peered in. Mariah flashed her eyes open, wanting to escape the chill crawling across her skin.

Not that it helped.

Internally, she felt the magic examining her, peeling apart the layers of her soul, digging into her very essence to reach a place she didn’t know existed. She had no wards, no barriers, nothing to prevent the intrusion, and had no choice but to stand there, frozen as she was torn apart by the threads that were supposed to defend her from all harm.

Suddenly, it felt like a decision was made.

The silver and gold threads, wound together in a single rope of light, filled her gut and then the veins beneath her skin, eventually pushing out in the air in front of her in a flood of brilliant light. Watching the magic move in the air, Mariah wondered if anyone else noticed how much brighter it burned than it had for the previous selections.

The magic danced, twisting above the remaining men to the very last line of them, the space shrouded in shadow, nearly untouched by the candlelight. It eventually dropped to rest directly before a dark, tall figure who stood utterly still, the entire room now lit up by the brilliance of the light connecting him to Mariah.

Mariah steeled herself with all the resolve she had left and stepped off the dais for the last time, walking towards the back of the temple to stand in front of the male that had, somehow, been selected by both those threads of magic dwelling in her soul.

Before giving herself a second to doubt, she began to speak.

“Soldier, Marked by Priam. Qhohena has requested your service to me and my court, to be my armor against the world and to guard my back against those who might wish this kingdom harm. Do you answer my call?”

There was a heavy pause, where even the gods held their breaths. Mariah let her eyes dart up and realized her magic hadn’t yet retreated back within her. She reached a mental hand out to that light, and it slowly fed back into her skin, settling just beneath the surface to light her up like a torch against the darkness shrouding this back corner of the temple.

She hadn’t remembered it being this dark. Perhaps with the passing time, the light from the candles had grown weaker.

Her attention returned to the tall figure before her. Just like the others, she couldn't make out his face underneath his hood, but there was something strikingly familiar about him, like stepping back into a home that you had been away from for far too long.

Slowly, almost painstakingly slow, the figure lowered to his knees before Mariah. As if he were fighting the urge, but simply couldn’t, not with her Mark burning upon his skin and her magic lighting the darkest parts of that room. Just like the other Armature, tanned, callous hands slipped out from under his cloak, pulling his hood back from his face.

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