Page 18 of On Broken Bonds

“My sister will not survive a marriage. She certainly will not survive childbirth. Perhaps it’s not a lack of knowledge, but a lack of familiarity. I know her, know her limitations, and I am begging you to grant her your mercy.”

There’s a brief silence in which all the gods stare at this girl. Finally, Eryndor lowers his head back down to his scribblings, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“Perhaps you should re-focus your worship,” Valtor says finally, sitting back in his seat, apparently growing bored of this interaction. Waving his hand dismissively, he says, “Your sister will remain the Courted Prize. It would be cruel of me to strip her of such honor.”

The armed gods move, taking a step toward the woman, and she turns to them, her lips moving, saying something I can’t quite make out. To my shock, the soldiers stop in their movement, nodding their heads slightly.

“There must be some trade you’re willing to make!” Lady Nyx says, and Valtor blinks, looking away from the woman on his lap and back to her, clearly surprised that she’s still standing before him.

“A trade?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Take me instead.” Her voice breaks only slightly. “Take me instead of my sister, as the Courted Prize.”

“How heartless,” Valtor says, laughing and shaking his head. “I’ve heard of sibling rivalry, but never thought I’d see a sister claiming to love coming here and begging for the shame of the other.”

“I do not⁠—”

“Our decision is final,” Valtor booms, waving his hand wildly. The movement silences everything in the room, even the clinks of glasses and silverware going quiet. An eerie chill settles, all the attention in the massive space finally focused in on the exchange.

Lady Nyx tips up her chin, nods once, and turns to go. But her exit is halted by the god, who speaks again.

“Well, I suppose there is one way you could regain control of your sister, should your intentions be pure.” Which he does not believe, clearly.

Lady Nyx turns, raising a single sculpted eyebrow in his direction. “And what is that, your divine?”

“Why,” Valtor says, an evil laughter curling his words, “you could enter the competition yourself! Win the Courted Prize to keep as your own!”

With that, the silence breaks, and laughter roils through the room, ricocheting off the walls and glasses, like so many tiny mouths creating tiny splinters of laughter. It’s cruel, and builds exponentially, each person in the room hurrying to chortle at her expense, to stare and point at her.

The idea of this fair, fine woman entering the Trials is not laughable. It’s chilling, for she wouldn’t last a single minute. She would sacrifice herself in the suicide mission of rescuing her sister.

When the laughter dies down, Lady Nyx stands in the center of the room as though she’s survived a fire and is erect in the middle of the soot.

“Fine,” she says, not an ounce of fear in her voice. “Then I will.”

“You will what?” Soryn asks, her voice twinkling like wind chimes.

“Please consider this my official bid to enter the competition.”

Valtor barks out a long, loud laugh, then raises his hand to wipe a fake tear from his eye. “I’m tempted to grant your wish for the hilarity of this alone,” he says, then shakes his head, tilting his head condescendingly at her. “But what kind of example would that set?”

“You must have a partner to enter the competition,” Eryndor says, his voice soothing.

Valtor barks another laugh, and Terranis, who has looked mostly bored, also laughs now. “That should be a challenge,” he says, his deep voice rough from disuse. “Finding a partner willing to enter with you.”

Anybody else might have collapsed under the weight of their scrutiny, of their cruel delight in tearing her down, but Lady Nyx stands tall. “I am no stranger to challenges,” she says, her eyes settling on Valtor. “If I find a partner, you’ll allow me entrance into the trials?”

The other gods turn to Eryndor, who nods. “The rules do not bar a lady, even one with no experience and training, from entering. With a partner, it’s completely legal.”

Valtor is bored again, already waving his hand, “Yes. Now, guards, bring in the next.” Idly, he toys with the woman sitting in his lap, pushing the sleeve of her dress down over her shoulder, seeming to drink in her sigh. “I have other places to be tonight, and don’t wish to sit here forever.”

The guards turn to take her out, but Lady Nyx is already gone.

Just on the other end of the hall, I catch the swing of one of the massive gold doors.

And, before I can stop myself, before I can talk sense into my jelly-thing of a brain, I set down the rest of my ale and turn, following after her.

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