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Thedinofthetavern, loud and raucous, surrounds me as I head towards a table in the back of my regular haunt. With a name like The Harsh Butcher, you’d think this place was full of mercenaries and the dregs of society, but that is surprisingly not the case. All manner of fae clamor about, loudly discussing the only topic anyone can think about today - the Race. They’re shoved between tables crowded with wooden chairs, perched on barstools around the marble slab bartop, and some even sit on the stage that hosts live music when the Race isn’t on. A few shimmering fields of connections show different views of the participants within the terrain of the Summit. Those not engrossed in the events before them loudly discuss them with other patrons.
The scent of roasted meat from the kitchen fills the air, reminding me of how very little I’ve consumed today. I should eat, of course, but I have a bit more of a liquid diet in mind for this evening. The floor sticks to my boots with every step, remnants of the sloshed ale from drunken arguments coming with me.
A drunkard stumbles into me as if on cue, and I jump back, narrowly avoiding taking an early bath of mead. He looks as if he’s about to yell angrily, but his eyes widen when they lock on me. “I’m so sorry, Zeph…” he begins, taking several steps backward.
I clap his shoulder, laughing, “No problem at all, friend. Everyone is getting a little merry tonight!”
I curve around the man and slip away from the conversation, nodding in acknowledgment of Bracken, the Geomancer behind the bar. He gives me a quick nod, a silent acceptance of the order of my regular, and I finally spy Plume at our standard table, sitting across from Loris the Bliksem. Plume and Loris are the only people in the world I would be willing to talk to after a day like I’ve had today. We grew up together, learning to handle our powers as young fae. Loris always seemed to be a step or two ahead of Plume and me, but he needed more discipline if he wanted to rise through the leadership ranks.
He seems to be okay with where he’s ended up, though.
I slide onto the bench next to Plume, and my mouth waters with the need for something stronger than the mead that almost decorated my shirt. Plume slides a glass of clear liquor in front of me, and I pick it up and toss it back at once. A headache blooms in my temples; rubbing them does nothing to staunch it.
The denizens of the Harsh Butcher are shouting about the Race, placing bets on competitors, and discussing their highlights of the day. I hear squabbles breaking out, neighbors in impassioned arguments about their favorites to win. However, one event leads the charge as the one on the most lips.
“I cannot believe she just slit his throat,” Plume says, clearly in the middle of a conversation with Loris before I arrived.
Loris shakes his head and laughs a little. “I know, right? And he was on his knees. Just fucking ruthless.” Miss Mistflow certainly made an impression on the citizens of Ytopie today.
When we saw it happen on the connection, the air was sucked out of the room. We all fell silent, watching the young man die in real-time. It was eerie how calm and quiet Mistflow was, watching his blood flow from the smile she carved on his neck. Mousy screamed and cried in the corner of the hollow outcropping. It was unlike anything I’ve experienced in my time with the Race.
There have been murders every year, but this one felt different to all of us. When the altercation began, Cirrha had the Tempests increase their spell so the sound would travel through the air to the connections easier, and we all drank up the argument. We heard the story the man wove about Mistflow’s parents, about the grief he had endured and his desire for vengeance, his trauma reduced to entertainment for a spoiled society.
The claim her parents murdered his was almost as shocking to me as the fact that Mistflow took the man to her bed before the Race.
All of Ytopie heard the man called Amio surrender, Mousy pleading for mercy for him. Mistflow, Viola, Vi, whatever she was called, had the severe upper hand in the situation. And still, she was relentless.
The connection followed the pair for a measure longer than it typically spends on one competitor. We watched as she tried to justify what she had done, eventually manipulating Mousy into forgiving her and continuing on.
Maybe it wasn’t manipulation and was genuine remorse. It’s hard to be certain of someone like Mistflow. She’s showing that she’d do anything in her power to win.
If she only knew what we did to the winners.
The sadness on her face while comforting Mousy was evident, as was her affection for her companion. All of it churned my stomach in a multitude of ways I could not explain. Mace was the first to speak after it happened, his voice still reverberating in my brain. “Well, well, Miss Mistflow. How very fae of you…” It was quiet and said under his breath, but I knew that tone - admiration. It seems Viola Mistflow has a fan.
What type of woman is she if the likes of Mace is drawn to her?
“I recognized her,” I say, lifting the glass of liquor that Bracken had silently slid in front of me. I cannot shake the brutally beautiful woman with blood on her hands from my brain, no matter how hard I try.
“You did?” Plume questions, turning her head towards me.
I attempt to gather my thoughts, chasing away the nagging feeling that Viola Mistflow churns in my gut. I sip from my cup, slower this time, letting the burn of the alcohol cleanse me. “She’s the one whose parents left while she was sleeping a decade ago.”
Loris bobs his thin head in a semblance of a nod. I have always thought he was a strange-looking fae with his pointed chin and nose. He reminds me of a bird, with his thin legs and arms looking brittle and delicate. He stretches at least a head taller than most fae, including myself, and I often wonder how he stays upright. After getting to know him, though, I’ve learned that Loris is as ruthless as anyone I’ve ever met. He is just more subtle about it.
“I think you’re right. Her hair is longer, and she’s a bit older and stronger, but now I see it. It makes sense, too. If her parents were that merciless, imagine how she was raised.” He shakes his head as if there is a thought that he can’t quite place.
I wrack my brain, trying to remember that year of the Race.
We watched on as a man and a woman climbed out of their cave in the early morning hours and continued up the mountain, where they were very close to reaching the arena. Not long after they had gone, their trail washed away by light rain, a young woman stumbled out of the cave. I watched as her head whipped about, looking for her loved ones. And all of Ytopie watched as she sank to her knees and quietly cried into her hands. She allowed herself five minutes of grief, gathered her things, and was on her way up the mountain.
It is unusual for parents to leave their child in the Race. The love for a child should rise above all else. It’s unfortunate for Viola that wasn’t the case for her.
It was a hot topic of conversation that year throughout Ytopie, especially since her parents finished at the top of the Race. They were mobbed at the champion’s gala, and questions on how they could leave their daughter were all anyone wanted to talk about. The father was quiet, reserved, and barely spoke. The mother, though, loudly said to anyone that they had done their job raising her well, and it was up to her now. All the winners of the Race get sent to a “winner’s village” on the other side of the Summit after the gala, and none were sad to see the couple go. Once in the village, the fae know that humans can never return to the city of Ytopie but are well cared for in their new homes.
At least, that’s the narrative that’s pushed by Mace. I’m not sure how they would react if they knew what actually happens to the winners.
When Mistflow picked herself up and continued, I admired her strength to keep going. It’s one of the reasons the squabble she had with Amio has not sat right with me in many ways. I’ve never seen anything like the mask of cold that swept over her face. She was like a completely different person, possessed and charged when she spilled his blood for the first time.
