Page 40 of The Ascended
But my preference didn’t matter. It’s not like the decision was in my hands. Even more, there were so many others who had been watching from afar up until now. Thirty-seven mentors would be here today, not just the ones who’d presided over the Proving.
"So," I said, adjusting the flowing sleeves of my gown. "Any predictions on who might want the blood-covered twins as mentees?"
"Oh, come now," Novalie said with obvious delight, "every mentor is going to want you."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Please remember, dear, mentorship isn't like mortal teaching," Lyralei explained. "The gods expect absolute obedience and complete dedication. They'll reshape you into whatever they think you need to be to survive, regardless of what you want."
"Well, that sounds completely reasonable."
"I understand your sentiment." Vesper said simply. "But refusing a mentor's guidance is considered tantamount to suicide. Which, to be fair, it usually is."
I stared at my reflection, watching Lyralei wrap my hair around heated coils.
The thought of being owned—by anyone, but especially by one of them—made fear flare in my chest. But I pushed it down, buried it beneath the mask of compliance I was learning to wear.
Chapter 11
The Choosing
So many golden eyes.
The Aesymarean Legends sat before us, divine servants from the various domains lined against the walls, whispering amongst themselves. The air thrummed with power, making my skin prickle with awareness of how very mortal I was in this room full of gods.
The thirty-seven blessed who had made it through the Proving were lined up in front of a table of polished amethyst. An equal number of Legends sat observing us, but their attention kept drifting to one particular spot in our line. Even if I couldn't feel Thatcher through our bond, I would have known where he stood just by watching where those glowing eyes kept landing.
I supposed the Dreamweavers had been right. None of them looked angry, or fearful. They looked utterly and completely intrigued.
I glanced down the row to find a completely different version of the brother I’d left this morning. His team had dressed him in a black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, slicked his dark hair to perfection, and he met those golden gazes without flinching, the hintof a smirk threatening his lips. He was either playing his part really well, or he was actually enjoying the attention.
Briefly, I had worried that he might change his mind. What if the pact we'd made in blood and grief last night had crumbled under the weight of all this?
But no, through the bond, I felt it—a steel-coated resolution that mirrored my own.
I supposed I could start playing my part as well.
I turned back to face the table, meeting every gaze that fell on me. I forced my lips into what I hoped was a pleasant smile, trying to project confidence instead of the terror clawing at my insides.
A scribe made his way to the front of the room, positioning himself on the opposite side of the amethyst table. His hands shook slightly as he unrolled a scroll, and I didn't blame him—being the focus of this much divine attention would rattle anyone.
"The viewing time is complete," he announced, his voice echoing off the crystal walls. "We may now begin the Choosing. I do hope everyone ends the day with their first choice, but that, of course, is unlikely." A few Legends chuckled at that. "Per tradition, the seven—pardon me—sixLegends who presided over the Proving will have the honor of choosing first. The remaining Legends will make their decisions following. Thanks to Aella, Aesymar of Chaos, you will each find a golden token with your number under your seat."
The Legends reached for their tokens, and I tried my best at reading their reactions. Some looked pleased with their numbers, others resigned. And then my eyes fell on him as if he was some kind of unfortunate magnet. Xül. He wore a black suit with red crystal detailing, and the braids from yesterday had been tied back behind his head.
I saw his perfect jaw clench as he tossed his coin on the table dismissively.
"Will number one please stand," the scribe called.
Miria rose gracefully from her chair, dark green robes shimmering around her.
"Miria, congratulations on your placement. It is always an honor to choose first," he said. "Please announce your choice."
I tried desperately to catch Miria's eye, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin in what I hoped looked like quiet confidence. She was our best hope—the only Legend who'd shown any compassion during yesterday's horror show. Her gaze swept across our line, pausing on several contestants, but never quite landing on me. Never quite landing on Thatcher either.
"Nicolai Themstrom," she finally said, her voice ringing through the hall.
A pale-haired boy stepped forward from somewhere in the middle of our group. He looked young—maybe nineteen or twenty. He moved to stand behind Miria's chair, hands clasped behind his back.
