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The Corpse Kingneeds a new bride.
With the knowledge chilling my spine, I hand my sealed summons to the flesh-master, push my shoulders back, and set my jaw, praying he won’t realize it’s forged. Forging an elder’s summons could land me in an Ithydeir prison. Sneaking into the King’s Underworld to enter the Bone Games would land me in much worse. If I get caught.
After the master inspects the elder seal, he pinches his lips, scrutinizing me. I raise my chin, neck regal-high. Around his throat dangling from a leather cord is a proud wishbone: a gift inherited from an ancestor, no doubt. I sigh longingly at the beautiful piece which could pay off months’ worth of my family’s debt. Half consider swiping it, but it’s too risky.
Stop staring, I chastise myself and lift my eyes to the flesh-master’s. Provided that weasel-faced Ganyx gave me accurate information, I’ll walk away with enough rare bones to fund the farm for the next year.
“Quite a summons for a girl from the humble homestead of Cock-Cross,” remarks the flesh-master, chuckling at the name of our little farming town famed for its rooster bones. I almost chuckle, too until he opens his mouth, jagged teeth flashing.
Biting a groan from his intimidation tactic, I ball my clammy hands into fists to prevent them from shaking and stare him down, daring him to try and claim me. Those teeth and their keen claws are the differences between us and the elite Feyal-Ithydeir?the flesh-eaters.
And only the elders may practice bone magic. I resist the urge to squeeze my shoulders because I’ve forged the highest elder’s seal. Since my father has dealt with Elder Kanat in the past, it was familiar.
Pressing my determined lips together, I weave the truth into my response with an edge to my voice as I lie through my teeth, “Yes, I traveled all day to answer Elder Kanat’s summons. I’m certain he wishes to finish his cases and join the festivities.”
Tonight is the Feast of Flesh. I won’t get another chance.
Mathyr’s tears when I’d dragged my bleeding father back home still haunt me. I stiffen, remembering how I’d stabbed my scyan into the eth-gharym, damned, crazed refters after one had sunk its teeth into Fathyr’s shoulder. Sucking refter venom from his flesh was not on my to-do list two nights ago. Thanks to the mender, he will live, but menders are expensive.
I have no choice but to play the Bone Games.
As if testing me, the flesh-master’s eyes drift across my young and unmarked flesh. I tense. An unclaimed and unescorted human girl is a high target at the Corpse King’s nationwide masked ball, especially when he’s invited all races to his Citadel of Bones.
He’s desperate for a new bride. Tonight is the last opportunity for the King to appease the God of Death: Aryahn Kryach. Feathery ice crawls along my flesh. The last thing I must ever be is a Feyal-bride.
Behind me, an impatient Wisp-Shee hisses, baring her pointed teeth. She spreads her translucent wings to intimidate, but with gold-lined veins and edges decorated in gemstone flecks, she doesn’t intimidate much. Instead, I smirk and hiss, wagging my mother’s iron charm around my neck in a warning: iron is deadly to the Shee. She wrinkles her nose but steps back. Yes, I’m unescorted but never defenseless. I grin from the cold metal of my scyan kissing my inner thigh beneath my gown. After a lifetime of slaying refters, I’m prepared for any Shee or their Sythe cousins who may plunge their fangs or teeth into my blood.
Or Shifters. Or Inker magic and Eylfe allure. This is foolhardy at best. Lethal at worst.
Turning to the flesh-master, grateful for the stench of human flesh on his breath from a recent feeding, I tighten my muscles. Many humans will meet their future claimers who will mark them at the Bite Offering tonight.
If I don’t succeed at the Bone Games, my bride status is a guarantee. Ganyx’ snake-like tongue has promised ten times the winnings at the Bone Games. I must win or our family’s farms, our home will be forfeit, and I’ll be married off to a Cock-Cross Ithydeir.
Relieved when the flesh-master juts the summons into my hands and jerks on a rope to open the gates, I beat a hasty retreat inside. The cavern ceiling welcomes me into its shadow. I suck a brazen breath, gazing at the hundreds who await passage to the Citadel of Bones. On the Feast of Flesh, the royals welcome human citizens inside the collective five mountains: Nathyan Ghyeal: the White Ladies with the formidable Citadel deep beneath their center. The Underworld. Most humans have escorts.
Utter darkness, save for the flickering firelight of torches on the far sides of the train platform, embraces me. The God of Death’s shade power eclipses this Underworld, his spirit hunting for maidyans.
At the base of my spine, my Nether-mark chafes. I clamp my fingers into my gown, resisting the urge to scratch the ghost brand, which has haunted my back since I was discovered on the border of the Void: the cursed spirit realm. The endless boundary between all countries and the god Isles.
The line moves. Bone trains transport hundreds of citizens to the Citadel. I will be next. A Feyal-Ithydeir or informal Ith, as we humans dub them, eyes me from the side, perusing my flesh. I refuse to meet his gaze which would welcome his interest. If any Ith taste my blood, they would not appreciate the flavor. Thanks to my Nether mark, I’m certain I would taste like a refter. Nothing but black mania, doom, wrath, and death... even if I shine on the outside.
Thankfully, human flesh is prized, cherished in Talahn-Feylan. Unless it’s a powerful elder, the Ith do not concern me.
“Isla!” a familiar voice shrieks my name, and I spin, almost bumping noses with Franzyna. Garbed in an emerald, glittery gown hugging her slender figure and complimenting her auburn hair, Franzyna embraces me. Her warm, ruby lips settling on my cheek prompt a rush of blood to my pale cheeks.
“Slantya, Franzy,” I informally greet my friend who didn’t need to forge her invitation to reach the head of the line.
“I didn’t know if you were going to make it. Isla, are you sure about?”
I kiss her, claiming Franzy’s lips and the familiar taste of cinnamon and sugar from her father’s vessel-imported sweets. She sighs into my mouth, welcoming my kiss. As a trader’s daughter, Franzy has spent much of her youth with me while our parents haggled over prices. Last year, we snuck into the Feast of Flesh and drank a whole bottle of Sythe wine in one night. We woke naked and tangled in each other’s arms the next morning. Ever since, we’ve danced around our mutual attraction.
“I’m doing this, Franzy. But you shouldn’t come,” I whisper, squeezing her hand. “Go enjoy the festival.”
“Not a chance. I’d never let you go alone. You look lovely,” she changes the subject, admiring me, clasping my hands. “Are you wearing your mother’s wedding gown?” Her warm, amber eyes survey the pix-spun lace along the off-the-shoulder sleeves at my elbows and the translucent gown embroidered with pearls and feathers.
I touch my waist where the gown’s snugger thanks to my more generous curves. And my love of honey shortbread. “Mathyr let me wear it tonight,” I boast and fold my hand into Franzy’s. “It’s so low-cut, it’s almost obscene!” Which may come in handy at the Bone Games.
Franzy giggles. “I love it. You will taunt the Ith lords with your ample bosom all Cock-Cross girls dream of having.”
