Page 5 of The Curse of Golden Blood
And we weren’t special. We were just one group among many.
I took a breath, trying to steady myself. The air here was warm, gentler than the wind that had clawed at my coat only moments before.
But no warmth could touch what I carried with me. And I knew, as the glow faded away behind me—
The snow would never melt.
We would never return.
two
The Twenty-Sixth
Zydar
Themortalswerebroughtto the High Glade at the changing of the light. Twenty-six fresh Vessels delivered like cargo to the Thunder Court's most sacred ground.
Pillars of black stone rose like a giant's teeth around the clearing's edge, each one carved with scenes of mortal armies kneeling in defeat. At the heart of it all, the Bloodstone pulsed with crimson light, twenty feet of crystal that had drunk from kings and beggars alike for a thousand years.
I hated this ritual.
Every year, the same ceremony dressed up as tradition when it was nothing but necessity. The Court needed what these mortals carried—the fire in their blood, the strength that we fae had traded away for immortality. I despised the pageantry but could not deny thehunger that drove us all.
They stood in their crooked line, trembling in wool and tattered homespun, reeking of sweat and the road. Some clutched wooden symbols as if their mother goddess might reach down and snatch them back. Others wept quietly.
One glance at Gryven told me he was thinking the same. His weathered face bore the scars of three centuries of war and his silver hair was pulled back in the severe knot he'd worn since serving under my grandfather. His dark wings, veined and heavy from age and battle, arched behind him like a shadow of his former glory.
"I thought we had decided on twenty-five this year," Gryven said, his voice carrying the clipped formality of the old guard. "Not twenty-six."
"We did."
Gryven's gaze sharpened. "Then explain the extra, my lord."
I looked over at the mortal girl. Miralyte. She stood taller than most of her kind, golden hair braided back from a face that held no submission. Her stance was rigid and proud, chin lifted as if she were addressing equals rather than her captors. A curious excitement filled me. Perhaps this pageantry would be a little enjoyable this year, after all.
"Because I wanted to see what she would do." I nodded toward her. "Miralyte Tavora."
Gryven surveyed the line until his gaze found her. Most had bowed their heads in deference; the rest trembled. But not the one I had chosen. She stared straight into his war-hardened eyes and glared back with unflinching gold.
How amusing.
"And what did she do, my lord?"
"Exactly what I expected. She volunteered to take the place of that healer's apprentice beside her."
His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile on a kinder face. "So you claimed them both."
"I did."
"Your games grow more elaborate with each passing year, my lord."
“Your tongue grows sharper, Gryven.” I kept my expression neutral. There was no point in indulging Gryven in another verbal sparring match.
Instead, I walked up to the mortals and addressed the entire group. Fear was a lesson best learned early.
"Vessels," I declared.
All eyes fixed on me, as I knew they would. Even Miralyte's. She watched me with the same fury I'd seen in the village. Anger. Rage. Defiance.
