Chapter 4 The Blood Quill
If you’ve ever seen polished obsidian, you’d know that the volcanic glass is not just black, but iridescent. In different lights, it can appear blue, green, and sometimes purple. It’s a magnificent stone, a black so true it deceives the eye. As Sylvain and I slip out the servants’ door to the courtyard, more than one curious gaze finds me and stares in shock.
I couldn’t have chosen a more eye-catching way to announce to the world I’m far more than they realize.
My armor isn’t leather, it’s not made for sparring. It’s plated obsidian, layered like the scales of a dragon, and my hair is tied up like the warriors of legend. A thick braid starts at the widow’s peak in my hair and holds my long locks tight to my skull, the end twisted into a tight bun on the back of my head. One may think this a fanciful way to hold one’s hair, but if you were to fall off the back of an alicorn and hit your head, you’d wish you had padding like I did.
“She’s an Obsidian Reach warrior?” someone whispers behind their hand.
“There’s no way,” another adds. “She’s a lady’s maid! I bet she stole the armor!”
I hold my head up high as I walk through the throngs of people. I can see the raised platform in the middle of the courtyard and I make a beeline for it. Sylvain is at my side, finally appearing stoic and powerful as a true warrior should. The moment she saw my armor she knew I was no pretender. Now they will all know.
The queen will know…
Zaries will know…
They will all know the training I had and how I failed, regardless.
One man is standing on the platform. He’s tall and strong, but he leans heavily on a large walking stick that curls into a spiral above his head. He, too, wears fighting leathers, although his are gray like the rest of the common fighters in Stormcoast. What catches the eye is not his strength, nor his staff, but the strip of fabric tied around his ruined eyes and holding his long salt and pepper hair back from his temples.
His head turns toward me as I approach as if he can see me even though he’s blind, and a slow smile creeps over his scarred face. “Have you come to sign up for the Trial?” he asks, his voice full of mystery and a hint of challenge.
“We have,” I announce, taking the steps up the platform with Sylvain on my right.
“I am Thorne, the master dragon slayer, and I am here to test your ability to look into the eyes of death and face it without fear,” the blind man says.
Thorne, a legend in his own right. Some say he was the first to slay a dragon, some say he’s the only one the royal families would ever trust to train dragon slayers. But the rumors that crawl in my ears now are not of his great deeds, but of his great cruelty.
Thorne, killing a boy who had come to the Slayer Trial last year. Thorne, kicking a beggar woman in the chest and breaking her sternum. Thorne the cruel. Thorne the deadly. Thorne, my only hope for ever redeeming myself for the horrible things I’ve done.
“Come, sign your death warrant. May your demise be entertaining…”
Bravely, I walk up to him and turn to face the crowd as they hush in anticipation. There’s a podium before me holding an old piece of parchment. I stare in wonder at all the names going back years and years, the ink fading to nothing but a shadow by the time I get to Thorne’s name at the very top.
“Will you sign your life away, girl?” Thorne whispers.
I jump. He’s right behind me, his head hanging over my shoulder. A chill runs up my spine as he grins, his canine teeth seeming far too long and sharp for a normal person.
“Here now, do not cower away,” he taunts. “You’ve come all this way.”
My eyes scan the parchment, then the podium, then the floor. “Where is the quill?”
“Ah, yes, that.” Thorne chuckles, walking around and leaning on the podium with his back to me. With a flourish of his hand and a quick flash of bright light, a feather materializes between his fingers.
A tingle of magic brushes my skin, a knowing that he too possesses gifts beyond the normal, but no one else seems to notice.
“Here,” he says, his voice like the crackle of a fire.
“The inkwell?” I inquire, taking the quill from him without revealing my surprise or growing unease.
“You are the inkwell, my dear. The scroll must be signed in blood.”
If I thought the crowd was hushed before, now it goes preternaturally silent. There's an intake of breath behind me. I can only assume it’s Sylvain.
“I’ve been to several Slayer Trails as a patron, I’ve never seen—”
“Will you sign or not?” Thorne asks impatiently. He points to the quill's tip and I follow his gesture, seeing it’s sharp as a blade.
This has never been done before.
So why is it different this year?
The massive doors to the castle swing open and I lock eyes with the queen, her brother, and Zaries himself. Mixtures of fear, shock, and hatred marr their faces.
It’s now or never.
I square my shoulders, looking into Zaries’ eyes, and stab myself in the wrist. Blood pools around the quill and drips from my arm to the ground, but I ignore it.
With a flourishing sweep, without a chance to acknowledge the ice that crackles through my veins, I sign the parchment.
Sealing my fate.
Thorne takes the quill from me and faces the crowd. “The first soul has signed her life away! The Slayer Trial has begun!”
“No!” Queen Serena wails as she stumbles. A guard catches her just before she faints and crumples to the ground.
I turn, handing the quill to Sylvain, and descend the platform without another word.
“You fucking fool.”
I freeze midstep, gaze rising to face Malachi as he climbs the stairs. One eye is bandaged, blood still trickling down his face.
“Malachi, it’s so nice to see you again,” I smile.
“They told me I couldn’t kill you. They told me I couldn’t get revenge, but with both of you in the Trial? As Thorne said, you just signed your life away.”
I chortle, stepping down the stairs and hitting him with my shoulder as I pass. “I already took your eye, Malachi. What makes you think I can’t take your life?”
“You little bitch!” he snarls, swinging his arm around to sweep me off the stairs.
I brace myself for impact, but the blow never comes.
“If anyone is going to kill Anara, it will be me,” Zaries hisses.
I blink, looking up and seeing the stitched golden rose directly in front of my face. Zaries’ arms are over my shoulders, his hands gripping his friend’s body in an unbreakable hold. As I blink, Zaries looks down.
“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. It takes a mental effort for me to remember that Zaries will always have a blind eye when it comes to Malachi. He’ll stand up to him in times like these, sure, but most of the time he’s ignorant to the wrongs his friend is capable of. They were young when they first met, maybe ten, and Malachi saved Zaries from a stray dog after he’d snuck out from the castle. Malachi was a street kid back then, and he didn’t know he was saving the prince, he just acted. Zaries has kept hiim by his side since then and overlooked anything he’s done because of what he sees as a life debt owed and an unbreakable bond between them.
“Do not thank me, servant. I will end your existence myself in the Trial. I promise you this,” he growls. The hatred in his eyes burns me to the core, breaking my heart a million times over. “You don’t deserve to breathe, not when she no longer can.”
His last words are but a whisper, but they sting more than anything he’s ever said to me. I’m close to him for the first time in years, close enough to feel his breath caress my face. Feelings I don't deserve to have a twist in my gut, feelings I never should have let myself develop. I search his eyes for any sign of kindness, any glimmer of the boy I remember, but there’s none to be found.
“I’ll see you in the trial,” I say quietly, ducking under his arms and walking away.
I know in my heart we’ll never be the same as we once were. I know he will never turn that crooked smile my way. I know this, and yet, the hatred he showed me just now hurts more than I expected.
I look over my shoulder, watching as Sylvain skips down the steps as fast as she can and runs to my side. Malachi is up next to the sign, but Zaries shoves him out of the way and rips the quill from Thorne’s hand.
“Are you watching, Mother?” Zaries roars, and I register that she’s come to. “From this point on, I take control of my own fate!” He stabs himself in the palm, grinding the quill in as he holds his mother’s gaze.
As he signs, Serena screams.
She screams and screams and screams, her body falling limp once more in the arms of her guards. Her brother stands by grinning wickedly, his eyes darting from contestant to contestant before finally landing back on his nephew.
Fate has dropped the hammer on the anvil. The forge is lit.
There’s no turning back now.