Page 2 of Riftborne
Keeping my head low, I found my way to the opposite side ofthe Grove where Ma's potions were displayed on a table lined with twinkling candles and blooms from across the realm. Annoyance tugged at me. Ma's affinity for healing was revolutionary, yet this would be her legacy. Providing libido-boosting cocktails to the Sídhe Guard and their irreverent groupies.
My shoulders burned to drop the crate. It nearly tumbled out of my grasp as I edged it onto the table, vials clinking against each other at the subtle jolt. My arms lifted in an involuntary stretch, only to find they felt more like liquid than muscle and bone.
I hunted for anyone who might be manning this station, but it seemed even the organizers had joined in on the evening’s revelry.
I had never stepped foot near one of these parties but knew what to expect. Ma loved to gossip about them during our more boring hours at the Apothecary. Tonight, all classes would be frothing at the mouth as their military idols were paraded through the crowd. They'd indulge in the finest culinary delights, lose themselves in aromatic bitters, spiked tonics, and the elusive Bloodthorne wine, only to finally stagger home, leaving chaos in their inebriated wake. Just another mess for someone else to clean up.
The most intriguing part of this particular soiree was the attendance of the General–well, assuming he’d show up.
The General seldom graced Luminaria with his presence, preferring the proximity of the Western border. I began unloading the vials, snapping back and forth from crate to table. If quick enough, I could make my escape before being spotted by any curious drunkard.
Luck, however, was not on my side.
It never was.
With only three damn bottles placed, a familiar squeal echoed through the air behind me.I took a calming breath before turning around and meeting the bright aquamarine eyes of Osta, who looked giddy enough to explode. She practically leaped in my direction.
Deep blue silk cascaded in shimmering pleats down her frame, like the petals of a flower in bloom. The entire hemline looked like it had been dipped in stardust, silver threads dancing in delicate patterns along the edges. She had been working on it for weeks.
My eyes instinctively shot to her left hand, which was covered by the silver fabric of a glove. A sigh of relief slipped out. She hadn’t fully lost her mind, it seemed.
Osta’s bronzed hair laid in perfect ringlets down her back. Her skin glowed a golden shimmer. Her radiance was akin to sunlight, even as she stepped into the shadow I was currently occupying. Immediately, I felt even more out of place.
If Osta was the personification of life, I was the living embodiment of death. Cheekbones too high, chin too sharp, and forehead stretching a tad too long—jarring was an appropriate descriptor already. Add in the white curls, unnaturally pale skin, and perpetually shrouded eyes, and we’re verging on full-blown ghoul.
Looking down at my herb-stained blouse and wrinkled trousers, heat rushed over me. My body wanted to crumple into a ball. I needed to find a way out of here. Now.
“Fiiiiiaa!” Osta sang as she threw her arms around me, the sweet scent of wine wafting off her.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here!” She stepped back, eyeing my disgruntled state. “Though I had a different vision… Want to run to the shop? It’s not far, and I have so many pieces that would look divine on you!” Her eyes sparkled. She was clearly already styling me in her mind.
I fiddled with my hair, attempting to push it back. “Thank you for not so subtly pointing out how terrible I look… but I have no intention of hanging around. Eron needed me to deliver this crate and?—”
“You’re already here now, so stay! Just for an hour!” she grabbed my stained hands and looked up at me, eyes pleading. Osta always knew when to employ the dramatics. A pang of guilt shot through my chest.
It was then that trumpets tore through the Grove, announcing the arrival of the royal court—a small blessing, saving me from denying her yet again. I often disappointed her with my fear of crowds… especially when they consisted of this type of company. The kind that would gleam with amusement at the prospect of my death once they saw what I was. Even worse if they figured out what I was hiding, what threatened to bubble up and boil out of me.
I reached up and wiped the sweat from my brow. Heat radiated from the touch.
The music quickened and spilled through the Grove. Curiosity peaked in the corners of my mind, and I allowed it to get the best of me. I turned, hesitantly moving towards the commotion. A sea of Aossí had parted, giving the procession a clear path to the raised dais near the center of the Grove.
Osta bounced at my side, clapping her hands and standing on the tips of her toes, trying to get a better look at the King and Queen, who were surrounded by at least twenty members of the Guard. Dressed in matching drapes of sparkling emerald, they moved with a commanding grace. When they finally reached the thrones atop the dais, they turned and waved, hand in hand before taking their seats.
Attendees stumbled as they pushed past me, and my attention followed the rush of bodies. A figure emerged on the southern platform.
It must have been him–the evening’s honored Guest.
General Laryk Ashford.
Both men and women practically threw themselves at him, singing his praise and swooning in the delight of his presence.
Despite the fatigue, my eyes managed to roll just fine.
It was nothing personal against the General. I hated the entirety of the Guard just as much as they hated me. The major difference was that they held power and influence.
One wrong move on my end, and I’d disappear. Or die in somefreak encounter that would no doubt be ruled a tragic accident. Riftborne presence in Sídhe wasn't tolerated, it was merely endured. We were like a sickness to them, though their disdain was always hidden beneath a veneer of civility. No one was ever held accountable for their actions. People simply looked the other way.
I gritted my teeth and refocused on the celebration, ignoring the pit growing in my stomach.
