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It’s my turn to chuckle, but I see he’s serious and remember Geraldine said he liked conspiracies. “You’re probably not far from the truth,” I tease. “At least, I think they’re just using you all as fodder in their war.”
He grunts and nods his head. “Hmm. I still think it’s cannibalism. Or maybe they’re monsters in disguise.”
I pat his hand. “You should write all your theories down. I’m sure they’d make for interesting reads.”
“Good idea. Maybe Peg can help me.”
We continue marching. With so much to look at, I almost miss the three new arrivals to the House of Shadow’s box.
This time, I’m prepared for the impact of their striking appearances. They’re every bit the fallen angels my dream made them out to be. Long, silken black hair flows from a widow’s peak as Legion braces the rail with graceful fingers. His pale skin is so perfectly proportioned it seems carved from crystal. He was labeled “The First.” My snort of derision slips out. He carries the arrogance of someone who believes he’s the first, too.
Bodin is a stoic statue beside him. Soft twilight hues paint his brown skin with a meticulous hand, highlighting the strong angles. His head is shaved around the base, from ears to back. As in the portrait, black braids sweep from his forehead to knot at the crown.
Unlike Legion, whose coat is unadorned and tailored to fit his body, Bodin wears a black casual shirt. The sleeves are rolled to the elbow. The laces are untied at the neck. His broad chest heaves as though he’s run to get here. He also watches me with curiosity, judging me among the contenders. Not recognition.
Bitter disappointment sinks in my stomach. This revenge plan of mine is only sweet if they remember what they’ve done. A flash of white in the shadows reveals Emrys up there. He’s probably told them about our interaction.
Alarm prickles my skin, and on reflex, I check the arena for exits in case I need to make a speedy escape. When I glance back at the box, another face appears in the shadows. Pale and with short, messy black hair. Fox has the kind of pretty-boy looks that can charm a siren into giving up her voice.
If he hears my musings, he doesn’t reveal anything when he joins the others at the railing. He mutters something to Bodin and Legion, who both react with surprise. I don’t waste another second of my time on them. The longer I do, the greater my need to stab something. I wish this stupid procession was over.
The melodious trumpet stops. A hush falls over the crowd. I glance at my fellow Nothings, but they’re all the epitome of pristine behavior. Eyes forward. Backs straight. Hands by their sides. The pageant participants number in the hundreds. All desperate for something. All are willing to face death to get it.
Goodfellow swaggers toward the arena’s center. Shortly after, the roar of four dragons heralds the arrival of aristocrats from the Houses, each escorted by an anonymous druid-type in a brown robe. A carved wooden mask hides their face beneath a hood. Each carries a flat bowl in their hands.
Someone nearby prays under their breath to be chosen. Another chants, “Pick me. Pick me.”
Ahh. This must be the part where each House selects their protégé. Thank fuck it’s almost over. My legs ache. I can only imagine how uncomfortable Peggy is.
The House of Tides is headed by an ethereal beauty in a long, shimmering dress the same color as her serpentine dragon. Strings of pearls loop in her dark tresses, but she wears no other obvious adornment.
Next, a stocky male with sun-kissed, tawny skin leads the House of Stone. With that solid frame and rolling gait, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows his way around the battlefield—particularly with an ax. His fashion is no-nonsense and reminiscent of our dull-gray uniforms.
The House of Moonlight’s aristocrat is a female with long silver hair. But that’s where our similarities end. Her dress is of the finest pale tartan. She is tall, slim, and frail-looking. But I don’t think she’s weak. The moon shines from her pores, clashing with the dark heat from the House of Embers male beside her.
His black embroidered coat is trimmed with red, orange, and yellow flames that sparkle. With a hawkish nose and combed black hair, he walks with smug self-assurance.
Once the gentry and druids gather with Goodfellow at the center, each dragon slips down from their buttress and takes a position beside their leader. One by one, in perfect formation, the nobles march in a procession around the arena, as perfectly timed and executed as ours. No, that’s a lie. They’re far better. Each hand swings in the same direction at the same time. Left foot first. Right foot second.
They honestly take this nonsense seriously. I can’t wait to talk to Alfie about it; I’m sure he finds it as ridiculous as me. It’s absurd they can identify someone’s worthiness simply by walking past them.
Unless there’s magic involved. Okay, maybe not so ridiculous.
The heads of Houses don’t stop at our troop. It’s to be expected, but still, the disappointment in the eyes of my companions is heartbreaking.
Once the Radiants have completed a pass, they return to the center and wait beside the druids.
A loud, feminine, ceremonious voice announces from somewhere, “The Hollow Hunt and Her Radiance, Duchess Selene of Adularia from the House of Moonlight, will choose their favored Shadow first.”
Commotion rustles through the tiers as the iridescent moonlit dragon takes an interest in a skinny man on the east wing. He looks like the whispering wind could blow him over, but he stands strong under the gale force breath exhaled from the dragon. Going by his unadorned uniform, he is a Never. The duchess beckons him forward with a serene smile plastered on her face. The druid beside her lifts their flat bowl, and she removes a long white shimmering scarf. The duchess takes her Never’s hand and wraps both their wrists so they are bound.
Cheers erupt in the stands until the announcer speaks again.
“The Fever Hunt and the Marquess of Wulfenite, Lord Ignarius of the House of Embers, will choose their favored Shadow next.”
The dragon with pulsing veins oozes smoke from cracks between its dark scales. Air shimmers from the heat. Nervous eyes widen amongst the contenders as the beast lumbers along, its tall suave leader strolling beside it. The Fever Hunt pauses, sniffs the air, and suddenly rounds on a troop of Chasers. It puffs smoke over them, obscuring them from view. Coughs and splutters can be heard from within. Lord Ignarius enters the plume and returns with a stunning raven-haired woman. The smirk on her plump lips as she’s bound makes me think she expected this. And when Ignarius feasts on her with his eyes, I’m sure he expected it, too. This probably isn’t the first time he’s tied her up.
“The Dread Hunt and Marchioness of Connemara, Lady Nivene of the House of Tides, will choose their favored Shadow next.”
