Page 17 of On Broken Bonds

“…all twenty-something of them, falling over as though struck by invisible lightning,” the man is saying, tears falling from his eyes and hitting the marbled floor. When he raises his chin up to the gods, it’s with the pleading, anxious expression I’ve seen on each person’s face thus far. “Please, whatever I’ve done, I’ll atone for it. Without my goats, I can’t survive. My family⁠—”

“I’m sorry,” Valtor says, voice dripping with mirth, his head turning toward the man for the first time, as though realizing he’s meant to be hearing him for the first time.

This access to the gods, this opening, it’s tradition for Pantheora. We worship them with a fervor, and they appear to us in their forms. It’s been this way for centuries, and yet, Valtor acts each year like he’s baffled by the event.

“Have you come before me?” Valtor asks, rising to his feet, his gaze sharpening on the goatherd, “Have you come before me, only to speak of goats?”

“I—I⁠—”

“I do not care about your goats,” Valtor spits, his voice half-laughter, half-disgust. “And you’d do well to remove your ugly face from my sight. Before you befall the same fate as those stupid animals.”

Two armed guards rush onto the floor, hooking their arms under the goatherd’s armpits, dragging him away even as he weeps and pleads. Valtor falls with a grand sigh back into his throne, nearly crushing a woman who hangs halfway onto it.

“Next!” a different guard calls, and this time, when the door opens, it’s not a homely goatherd walking through.

All day, I’ve watched people prostrate themselves before the divine beings, their backs bent, their faces flushed with wanting. Wringing their hands as they approach, their expressions almost lustful for relief.

But not this one.

No, this woman walks into the room with her head held high. She’s a lady, surely. Someone of standing, with land and means. That much is immediately clear from the way she carries herself.

This is a woman who clearly enjoyed a gilded, pampered childhood. The sort filled with warm kitchens, fresh baked bread, and laughter echoing through sprawling halls.

And yet there is nothing soft about her.

Her beauty is cut sharp, all clean edges and quiet defiance, like a jewel carved too precisely to ever be mistaken for ornamental. Even her hazel eyes hold that same hard clarity, their amber green depths catching the torchlight and throwing it back altered somehow, fractured into something sharper than warmth ought to allow.

I’m intrigued.

And, to my disgust, so is Valtor, leaning forward in his throne, his attention narrowing fully upon her. This is exactly the sort of woman he favors. Not the simpering, eager ones who practically throw themselves at his feet, but the proud ones. The women with enough steel in them to make the pursuit interesting.

Valtor doesn’t want worshipers, he wants indifferent women to bend and break, to whittle down to their core, until the only thing they have left to do is either revere him or curse his name.

“Lady Nyx Nocturne,” the woman introduces herself, and I can’t tear my eyes from her. Her dark hair is pulled back so simply, revealing the sharp line of a jaw. Even from here, I can glean the look in her eye, can see the way she stares up at the gods defiantly. “And I’ve come for an audience with the gods.”

“And so you have,” Soryn says, shifting forward in her seat, clearly interested in this woman.

Even Eryndor has lifted his head, those intelligent eyes drinking in the scene. His hand moves quickly over his tablet, and I wonder if he’s noting down this very interaction.

Slowly, without a hitch in the movement, Lady Nocturne kneels before them. Her dress is pretty, but not hindered by the metal hoops and underthings that might otherwise stifle her grace. She sinks all the way to the floor, her head dipping down, revealing the long, smooth expanse of her pale neck.

I swallow, willing my anger to come back. Willing myself to shake off the way my eyes catch on her, unable to look away. The gods will not grant a thing to her, no matter her beauty or grace. Valtor and the others are neglectful parents, abusive caretakers. Even Eryndor is a failure, too weak to stop the others from wreaking havoc on us.

“And what have you come to say?” Valtor asks, undeniable interest in his voice. There is more than desire in the way he watches her. There is... almost familiarity.

“My sister, Lady Lyra Nocturne, has been selected as this year’s Courted Prize. While our family is more than grateful for the honor, I’ve come to beg your mercy. My sister is not a suitable candidate.”

“You doubt the decisions of the gods?” Valtor asks, amused like an adult might be, hearing the protestations of a toddler who doesn’t want to go to bed.

In fact, Valtor and the others likely have no idea which fine lady has been pulled from the higher families this year as the Courted Prize. It’s meant to be their decision, but no doubt they tasked a random clerk with the job. And likely, they rushed to complete it, leaving the actual selection to random.

“No,” Lady Nyx says, her voice cool. “Of course not, your divine. But you see, my sister is ill. It is the fault of our family, for not making that fact widely known.”

“I see. Surely, you’re aware that we know all, Lady Nocturne?”

Her face flushes slightly. “I am, but⁠—”

“Then you would know that doubting our decision is foolish.”