Page 34 of Goddess of the Broken

Sylvia frowned. “You’ve got a chance to be a leader of the country. You’ve got to take that chance.”

Tempest looked at her and shook her head. “You know, just because a god chooses you to compete in the Dei Electi doesn’t mean you have to become empress. Representatives can say no at any point.”

“But why would you want to? You could do something good for the people.”

“There are other ways.”

“Are you really going to leave?”

Tempest felt along her connection to Aiden. It unsettled her that it was becoming a comforting action for her.

“No. I have too much to do.”

Sylvia looked confused but chose not to push it. A knock sounded on the door had immediately brought Sylvia her feet. She opened the door, but no one was there. Only a letter lay on the floor. She picked it up and brought it to Tempest, who opened it.

Dei Electi Contestant,

An empress must be wise, just, and brave.

The next trial will commence tomorrow. Meet in the ballroom at midday. Only contestants will be admitted.

Tempest read the missive twice and passed it to Sylvia.

“What do you think it means?” Sylvia asked.

“They’re judging our character. Any guesses on who will fail and be sent home?” Tempest asked with a wry grin.

Sylvia smirked and leaned back in her chair. “There are a few that I hope are part of that crowd.”

Tempest approached the ballroom the next afternoon and stopped short. The other contestants had dressed up, many wearing elaborate clothing and ornate jewelry. But Tempest felt confident in her simple red gown. She wasn’t interested in standing out any more than she already had. Besides, after all she’d been through lately, she deserved the comfort of doing without all that finery. Her shoulder was healing, though at a mortal’s pace, and certain movements were still painful.

The double doors opened, and the women were ushered in. A man stood at the head of the room, a table with stacks of various quills, ink, and paper in front of him. More tables and chairs were arranged around the ballroom.

“Welcome, contestants.” The man’s voice echoed in the grand hall. “Please select your writing implements and find a seat.”

The women silently made their way towards the table. Tempest found the variety of writing tools intriguing. Quills from an array of birds were spread out on the table. Most of the representatives quickly grabbed the finest quality items—golden peacock quills, silky parchment, and ink in jeweled bottles.

While they were beautiful, Tempest knew that no matter the cost of the tools used in this contest, it wouldn’t help them with their answers. She chose a crow quill, papyrus scroll, and a simple glass bottle of black ink and made her way to a table in the back of the room.

She sat down and took a breath. The room was full of competitors, strangers; potentially enemies, as well. To calm her mind, she breathed deeply, rhythmically. The scent of patchouli assaulted her nostrils.

A servant moved from table to table, placing a piece of parchment paper face down on their tables. The man at the head of the room moved in front of the table and crossed his arms.

“In front of you, you will find a problem, one that you will be expected to present a solution to within the next hour. When you are finished, bring it up to me along with the items you used. The emperor and his advisors will review your responses. Those deemed good enough will be given the opportunity to spend time individually with the emperor. The rest will be asked to leave. You may begin.”

Tempest flipped the paper over and read the problem. Just as she suspected; a generic situation about how to handle a drought as a ruler. Dipping her quill in the ink, she began writing her solution.

A few minutes passed before the other women started to look at Tempest. She tried to put them from her mind, but she could feel their stares. Then she heard the whispers. Some about her dress, others about her hair, but the majority were about her and the emperor.

Tempest was used to the rumors and whispers. She’d experienced it all of her existence. But being in the room of women, all of whom were staring at her, was uncomfortable. She felt like she was out of place. She wanted to stand up and leave, but she kept writing.

Perhaps if she ignored them, they would leave her alone.

Tempest wrote quickly, the ink flowing onto the page. She could feel the words coming out of her heart and running onto the page like a river. It was a beautiful feeling, that she didn’t have totryto write because she couldn’tstopwriting. It felt good to let herself get lost in the words.

When she looked up from the page, she was surprised to find that most of the women were already gone. Once her ink was dry, she rolled up her parchment, gathered her things, and brought them to the man at the front. Placing them in their own pile on the table, she quickly left.

Chapter 18

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