Page 37 of Cursed Shadows 1

The only reason Daxeel didn’t was that I did it at the High Court, and to harm me there would have meant jeopardising the treaty during the Fae Eclipse. It simply wasn’t his place. And it was the place I was safest.

‘What did you expect?’

Apparently the fucking impossible.

I don’t know how long it takes me to process this, how long I stand here at the wall with Eamon holding me, before a quiet starts to crawl over the courtyard.

I wipe at my cheeks as Eamon steps back.

We look out into the crowd, watch them turn one by one and face the dais. Males and females, light and dark, step onto the platform.

The war songs are about to begin. The ceremony is about to begin.

Eamon offers me a lingering look, one that quickly assesses the blotchy cheeks I wear and watery eyes that I don’t doubt are bloodshot, then he’s gone. He must leave, and I watch him slink through the crowd to where Daxeel still stands with Rune and Aleana.

I wipe away my tears and—with a harsh sniff—hope I look passable enough for the dance.

Before I can push from the wall, ocean eyes catch my gaze.

He watches me from across the way, his gaze only shifting for a moment to Eamon who approaches him before turning back on me.

First time I ever saw him, I thought he wore kohl around his eyes, faint dark lines that turned his deep blue eyes into something electric. But now I know better, there is no kohl, it’s a natural tint to his skin, a natural lining. And it’s as stunning nowas it was then: It lines his piercing stare—the one that daggers into me with the promise of bloodshed.

I’m a fool. Such a fool.

Swallowing back the thickness in my throat, I tuck my head down and push from the wall. Daxeel’s gaze sears into me as I make my way to the second dais. There, I climb up and take my place among the other dancers.

I just make it in time, because it’s then that the song begins.

A song that will wake up the ancestors, call to the gods of both lands, and one that feels like ice trickling down my flesh.

War songs.

I think maybe I’m about to enter into a war of my own.

White, black, white, black—a pattern repeated in the dresses all twelve of us dancers wear. Our dresses might be plain, but they represent our homes.

I was lucky to snare a spot among the dancers. They had enough, and more on a waitlist in case anyone got injured, but they let me perform for them, and they were impressed enough to let me take another halfling’s spot.

I’m a smidge proud about it. Not just because I’m talented, but because I work harder than the fullbloods to be as good as I am. And always I’m underestimated for being a halfling.

So I hold my head up high and look over the crowd.

I’m flanked by two dark females, and like mine, their ceremonial swords are laid out in front of them. Theirs are black, mine is silver.

We’re statues of white dress and black dress, silver swords and black swords.

We wait.

The first song fades from the mouths of the singers.

Then the next begins—and there are no instruments to add to it, only the bass of male hums and calls, with the cries of the females, winding threads of sorrow and rage. It’s slow and haunting and fucking sad, so it takes everything in me not to break down in tears.

I school my face.

I disappear into the empty mind I’m trained to have for moments like these.

With each of the dancers, in perfect synchronicity, I point my toes to the sword in front of me. And I prepare to pirouette onto it without so much as nicking my skin. A single bead of blood will have me booted out of the group of dancers in a heartbeat.

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