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For all his faults, my father was not a fan of the deception. “What do you mean? We tell the Lowlanders and our own people that these humans represent the best of them. That is why they deserve to live in Ytopie, even if it is just the outskirts.”
Stone had nodded gravely, “Unfortunately, sometimes we must bear the burden of the truth so our people do not.” I watched in silent horror as Stone revealed the worst of it. “It’s in the village that the winner and the other ten meet the fate of the expendables. The Gods will not be satisfied with sacrificing just the weak and meek.”
The words echoed in my head. The euphemism for death was used throughout the Race. The last finishers are marked as “expendable” each year. We execute them. Determined to be not worth the resources to sustain, they are removed from this world, and their bodies returned to the soil to nurture it.
When we explain this to the citizens of Krillium, we tell them the Gods demand a sacrifice to maintain their immortality. Being expendable is an honor that will keep the world functioning and keep us from being plunged into eternal darkness.
“Expendable?” my father had said, his disgust mirroring my own. “I would think the cleverest would be the least expendable.”
Stone sadly shook his head as he replied, “Those are the ones we have to worry about the most. They threaten everything. Who else but the cleverest and dedicated could figure out that the Gods have abandoned us? If that were to happen, we would not be able to staunch that revolution that would occur.”
“But why bother with the Race at all? Has this been in place since before the Gods went missing?” My father had asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I had strained to hear, but I could not make out any more of Stone’s words. Eventually, they left, leaving me to process all the deceptions I’d heard.
It took a long time for me to forgive Stone for his role in deceiving all of our people. When my father died, I felt I had no choice but to give in to him. He stepped in as a parental figure and supported me through my grief. I disagreed with him upholding the practice, but I have always understood the difficulty of changing it. I have been a Patrician for years and am just now working towards a change.
I often ask myself why I am doing it now. Part of me wonders if I want to cut Mace off at the knees. His political career is only growing, and he’s rapidly becoming one of the most beloved members in the history of the Patricians. My jealousy is palpable. I never wanted this role I was thrust into, but that does not stop me from wanting to be successful and revered for it.
But I sleep better at night, remembering that, regardless of my motivations for working to end the Race, doing this is the right thing.
I pour myself another glass of liquor and turn to face my companion. “Would you like a drink?” I ask her. She looks up from my bed, blanket gathered at her hips. Her straight black hair hangs over her buttery brown shoulders, brushing against her dark nipples. I don’t remember her name. I rarely ever do.
It has been a while since I brought someone home from the taverns. The stress leading up to the Race must be getting to me.
“Sure, do you have wine?” she asks.
Her voice is melodic and soft. I’m naked save for my tattoos, which curl from my shoulders up my neck and into my hairline. Her eyes drift greedily over my skin. She looks at me with reverence, like I’ve done more than bring her home from a tavern. I feel embarrassed by it, but I should be used to it. As a Patrician, we can gain a somewhat celebrity status.
I join her in the bed and slide the glass of wine into her hand. I rest on the mussed blankets, not touching her but close enough. I always ensure the women I bring home are sober when I bed them.
But I hardly ever am.
Tonight is no exception. After spending a painful few hours alone with my thoughts, I went out drinking and gained the favor of the woman beside me.
My bedmate leans back against the head of my bed, quietly drinking from her glass of wine. The silence is uncomfortable. I clear my throat, trying to bridge the gap between sleeping together and getting her out of my home.
“So uh… what’s your magic, again?” I asked, searching for anything to talk about.
She smiles, a flush creeping up her hairline, “I’m an Esha.”
Eshas wield the magic of Yearning, a lesser magic under spring. Their rare magic allows them to increase desire in all forms - sexually, romantically, and even physical hunger. Unlike Light users, they do not reveal what’s hidden but instead, bring your heart’s greatest desires to the forefront.
Due to the sensitive nature of their magic and the effect it can have, they’re heavily regulated and required by law to disclose their magic when used.
“You know it is illegal to use Yearning to take someone to bed, right?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.
Her flush furthers, warming her chest. “I… I didn’t, you have to know that. You approached me, Zeph. I couldn’t... I wouldn’t… Please,” she begs, rising to her knees and crawling towards me. “You cannot say to Mace that I am misusing my powers. I know what happens to Eshas that do, I…”
I wave my hand, cutting her off. “Calm down. I know you didn’t cast on me.” Her shoulders droop as relief flashes across her face. “Mace may be the mouthpiece of the Patricians,” I continue, gritting my teeth, “but you know we all work in tandem, right? Mace, knowing that you misused your powers should be no more worrisome than me knowing.”
It irks me that Mace is seen as the most powerful among us. We all have our strengths, and while I have no doubt he uses his influential magic to boost the public perception of him, it frustrates me that my strengths are constantly underestimated.
The girl in my bed slowly backs away from me, slips to the floor, and begins dressing.
“Of course, Zeph, you’re right, I know that. Mace is just… Well, he just scares me a bit? And you took me home, so I figured you’d look out for me if it came to it?” Every sentence from her mouth is a question, a sign of her nerves clearly rising to the surface.
I throw back the rest of my drink, savoring the sharp burn on my throat. I tend to be a bit of a mean drunk, a trait Plume has tried to cover up for me numerous times. Nothing gets under my skin more than being compared to Mace. I fight to keep my words measured and maintain my composure.
