Page 6 of A Match Made in Error

I’d planned to avoid the whole thing this year. To barricade myself inside with caramel popcorn and hologram plays, allowing my magic to do all the heavy lifting for a day or two. No hopeless romanticism. No meddling Fate. No pretending I’m not bitter about being the Festival’s personal chew toy.

But no.

Riven, my hot, reckless, and annoyingly lovable best friend, has gotten himself tangled up in some nonsense again. And after swooping in to help me tonight, he looked at me with those stupid earnest eyes like I’m one of the few people he actually trusts—which I am—so now I feel morally obligated to support him.

Which means leaving my cozy apartment, putting on real clothes, and watching him march straight into another doomed relationship with someone who doesn’t deserve him.

Friendship is a curse.

I curl up on the loveseat, blanket draping gently over me. My eyes caress the tendrils of steam rising from my mug, and my resentment toward Fate only deepens. One heaping spoonful of resentment for each of the three years I had hope.

Well, for one year, I had hope and a belief in destiny woven into the very fabric of my being. The second year, I was nervous but still optimistic. In the third year, I was skeptical but still trying. And now? Now, I think it’s all a crock of shite. How does the Festival get away with claiming soul matches when it’s only ever brought me disappointment?

Probably because it has produced enough sickeningly sweet couples lost in love to earn this claim to fame.

A claim which very well may include Riven a month from now.

The warmth of my mug presses against my chest, my thumbs dancing along the rim as I think. Riven entering it again makes no sense. I know better than anyone that he gave up on love years ago after watching his parents’ marriage rot from the inside. Hells, it’s why he, an affluent fae lordling, volunteered to join the war and fight the ogres from the front lines instead of taking his title and never working a day in his life. His romantic relationships are as shallow as a quickly dug grave. I know it’s because he fears letting someone in, and lust doesn’t require anything truly intimate from him. None of his girlfriends, scary as they are, get close enough to hurt him. But the Festival of Fates is the antithesis of that. The Moirai expect vulnerability. Demand it, even.

No male, not even one with his libido, could be that desperate. He’s had enough bedmates to exhaust a lesser man, and yet he’s entering the Festival for more?

Ceramic clinking against wood grounds me as I set my mug on the side table and stand. My legs move without thought, pacing in a tight circle as I fight the truth bubbling within me. Obviously, I don’t want Riven to enter the Festival because I think he’s doing it for the wrong reasons and the whole thing is doomed, but also…I think I’m afraid he’ll end up with what I’ve always wanted when he doesn’t even take love seriously. It’d be just like Riven to stumble through the trials with that careless charm of his and walk out, hand-in-hand, with a soulmate…while I, on the other hand, followed every rule, prayed for love, poured my whole soul into it, and somehow still ended up with empty palms.

I force myself to head to the bathroom, bare feet whispering across a worn sage-green rug, the soft shimmer of charm-lights coming to life above me like lazy fireflies. My cozy little apartment, with its overstuffed bookshelves and teacups drying in the rack, seems to sigh with me, coaxing me to relax as I march past the clutter of my quiet life and push open the bathroom door to start the bath.

Riven is a grown fae male, I remind myself as I twist the tap and the warmth of the water seeps into the air. He can spend his very long life with whatever storm-brained beauty he wants. It’s none of my business. If he wants to chain himself to a woman who sees him as a trophy instead of a person, that’s his cosmic prerogative. And, honestly, I’ve seen him do stupider things than this and stood by him. I’ll show up for a couple of hours tomorrow, clap politely, be the supportive friend he deserves…and then do something for myself after. Something decadent. Something blissfully Fate-free.

Like vanishing to a sun-drenched island and letting the whole realm sort itself out without me. I don’t know where that thought came from. I’ve never done anything like that before, but it sounds nice right about now. I could leave under the cover of night and return only once the entire ordeal is over.

By the time the bath finishes filling, steam curls around my shoulders like it’s trying to comfort me, and I finally begin to relax. I flick my wrist and a holographic play blooms across the tiled wall—bright costumes, swooning leads, and all those ridiculous happily-ever-afters that never seem to make their way to me.

Resolve soaks into me as assuredly as I soak in the hot water now. I’m done chasing destiny. I’ll go because Riven begged and because I apparently have the spine of a damp leaf where he’s concerned. Then, I’ll steal his most expensive bottle from the wine cellar, drown myself in it with absolutely no remorse, and disappear to a tropical isle. A sun-soaked exile. No Moirai. No dice. No heartbreak. No Riven.

Just me, salt air, and the bliss of an empty future Fate can’t meddle with.

Chapter Three

RIVEN

Asnap of autumn air swirls crunchy leaves around my feet, which is only slightly louder than Angora’s prattling.

“I think it’s good you changed clothes. The blue of your shirt really accentuates the blue in my eyes. It’s the little things Fate will pay notice to.” Yes, Fate. The faceless entity that pulls the strings while we all pray they’re benevolent. “We want to appear entirely united and cohesive.” I don’t know why this matters so much to her. Freshly manicured fingers press into my bicep as she squeamishly dodges a puddle. “I know that love will find us; my mystic told me so.” Pain radiates behind my eyes as I fight the urge to roll them. Her mystic also told her I would nearly die at the hand of a peanut. I am not allergic to them. Ate a whole cup of them right in front of her to prove it, and yet, she made me switch from peanuts to pistachios for the bar anyway. Well, she didn’t make me, but I thought switching would be easier than continuing to argue with her. Long story short, this mystic is a wagon-dwelling fraud.

“I think, if we wear coordinating outfits to the check-in ceremonies, we can raise our audience ratings. People like things that are pleasing to the eye.” I nod absentmindedly, letting my eyes pass over the Festival grounds. Colorful banners hang all around, snapping in the breeze, and temporary stalls line the streets, selling everything from food to mementos.

Angora is easy. I watch her from the corner of my eye, gliding through the crowd like she owns every set of eyes in the realm. She’s beautiful; she’s confident; she doesn’t ask me to talk about anything that matters—Fate, that alone should earn her a medal. Entering the Festival for her? Not a big deal. Just another month of games and attention, and the reward she promised is worth the trouble. At the end of it, I’ll tell the Moirai I want to take things slow with her. They can’t fault me for that. And neither will Angora. She probably doesn’t want a soulmate, nor does she want my depths any more than I want her to look at them. We’re a good match in that way.

We move past the tavern, the scent of hops mingling with the rich smells of fried dough and cider. A stand sits behind it, erected of wood and temporary canvas, selling donuts and confections to the eager people. I bet Poppy’ll stop there before she finds me.

Cobblestone streets lead us to the arena where the Festival of Fates’ main attraction lies: the matching ceremony. The opening act for the month-long charade the Moirai swear shows Fate’s hand in true love, but I think it's just a way those three meddling witches entertain themselves at our expense.

The matching ceremony takes place in the Arena of Affection, a basin of ancient stone at the center of the festival grounds. The back of the arena is accented by a raised stage that’s cocooned by the ancient trees that make up the sacred grove. The rest of the arena is surrounded by a ring of seats where fans and spectators watch the spectacle they put us through, and before the stage are magical glowing runes pulsing around the sunken well where matches are made, arches covered in winding ivy rising above contestants as they walk down to meet their fate.

I tune back into the present for a moment. “And I think at the second ceremony, we should wear imported silk because it is a sign of…” Good, Angora is still talking about nothing. My eyes fix on the arena, checking it for renovations even though it never changes. Nothing about the Moirai does.

The marble stage sits to one side, and below it, the Well of Possibility awaits. It’s a wide, smooth basin dissected in the middle by a curtain that hangs a foot or so off the ground. Once the ceremony begins, one by one, the Moirai will direct potential matches to stand on either side of the curtain and roll their enchanted die. Each contestant will roll their die from their side of the curtain, and if their scores combine to be ten or higher, then they will be bound for the rest of the month.

When they roll, the basin will hum as it absorbs the magic of Fate, and above, the shimmering translucent score crystals wait to reflect the couple’s emotional resonance score, revealing their potential compatibility to the crowd.