I rose from the table, unable to sit beneath the mounting pressure.
“And what would you have me do?” I asked, the question leaving me before I could temper it. “Bind myself to the first man who offers simply to quiet the council’s ledger? Stand beside a stranger and call that salvation?”
“It is safer than—”
“Safer than losing myself?” I pressed. “A Lunthra is supposed to be a recognition of souls, Father. Not a prison sentence.”
“The mandate is clear,” Mother whispered, her eyes wide. “We have little options, Kaelia.”
My lips parted, ready to form a response just as a heavy thud suddenly echoed through the house. It was the sound of a steel gauntlet striking the door.
We all froze.
“Assessments,” my father breathed, his face ashen.
The door swung open a moment later.
Two Veythar guards entered, their dark garments absorbing the warm light, hoods casting their features into obscurity. One carried a parchment scroll; the other held a small orb in his gloved hand, its sapphire core pulsing faintly.
“Kaelia Vaser,” the first intoned. “Age twenty. Approaching twenty-first solstice.”
Father moved forward before I could utter a word, his palms raised in supplication.
“Sir, we were informed our district’s assessments were taking place tomorrow evening,” he said carefully. “She has three more sunrises.”
“The Master of Umbral has advanced the schedule,” the guard replied. “All unbound within the Isvale wards are to be cataloged before moonrise.”
The guard pushed my father aside with the back of his hand and strode towards me with the orb raised.
I glared at him, taking a step back.
“Stop moving,” he ordered.
Before his hand could reach out to steady me, I turned and fled toward the narrow servant’s exit behind the pantry.
“Kaelia—”
The rest was swallowed by the slam of the door and the rush of night air.
Cold seized my lungs as I ran, boots striking stone in uneven rhythm while shouts erupted behind me.
I did not look back. I could not bear the sight of their faces.
The city of Haelen lay hushed beneath the rising moon, save for the distant, mournful cry of a lone hound somewhere beyond the riverbanks.
The streets smelled faintly of damp stone and extinguished hearth-fires, the last traces of evening clinging stubbornly to the air as if the city itself resisted sleep.
I avoided the main thoroughfares, slipping instead through narrow passages, my shoulder brushing rough plaster and hanging laundry, the fabric cold and damp where it grazed my skin.
I had not even had time to grab my coat.
Ignoring the chill, my path turned toward the oldest ground in all of Haelen—the Shrine of the First Lunthra.
It rose beside the Thrynn River in solemn ruin, gray stone worn smooth by centuries of wind and prayer.
I slowed and hopped over the cracked pavement, careful not to slip on the damp moss. After ascending the worn steps, I reached the small landing and turned toward the river.
It was the most beautiful sight in Haelen.