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But my utmost priority has been to divert Mace’s attention from our endeavors, ensuring our actions go unnoticed.
I believe the most invaluable asset in our endeavor has been Plume. Her mastery over vegetation has proved indispensable. She has cultivated overgrowth strategically, blocking off dangerous areas and subtly guiding the Racers toward safe resting spots and sources of water. She orchestrated their movements when requested to increase creature activity, herding groups of Racers together to face the creatures as a united front. This has forged unexpected friendships and alliances among the participants, strengthening their chances of arriving in the arena in time for my announcement.
So far, our efforts have gone undetected by Mace. In fact, his preoccupation with the Race has narrowed, and his mood has grown increasingly volatile. I have shadowed his every move, attempting to eavesdrop on covert meetings, but he rarely strays from the command center. It is as if he has become entirely consumed by the Race, fixated on its outcome like never before.
That’s where I find him today, slumped and exhausted at the table. His long, thin legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles. It’s nearly twilight, and the Palace is mostly empty. Still, I was not expecting to find him in the command center, eyes glued to the connection.
The connection shimmers before Mace, its luminescent glow casting a bleary light across his fatigued eyes. The sun has long set, and Racers settle into their well-deserved rest. Plume is already controlling the movements of creatures, skillfully steering them away from groups of sleeping Racers.
Seizing the opportunity, I slide into the seat beside Mace and pass him a mug of steamed wine, hoping to offer him some respite and loosen his lips. He takes a slow sip, expressing his gratitude without meeting my gaze. His once-familiar face has transformed, bearing the marks of exhaustion and strain. He appears gaunt and pale, as though sleep has eluded him for days. “Mace, you need to get some rest,” I implore, my voice laden with concern.
He waves me off dismissively and remains silent. My eyes remain fixed on him until an unnatural roar emanates from the connection. My head jerks towards the image, my breath catching in my throat as I witness the impossible—Viola Mistflow suspended from the back of a Wendigo. Shock reverberates through me, my heart twisted in fear for this woman. Mace straightens abruptly in his seat beside me, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“She jumped on a fucking Wendigo!” he whispers, more to himself than to me. I can only nod in disbelief, my mind struggling to process the audacity of her actions. We watch in awe as she and her companions launch a relentless assault, battling to subdue the monstrous creature.
Every time Viola is struck, it is like I am as well, and I find myself gripping my shirt over my heart in fear for her.
And then she drops a single feather to the ground, shadows erupting from her being.
I sink back into my seat, eyes wide with astonishment. Mace’s gaze meets mine, mirroring my shock and confusion. “That was a Witch’s Ladder,” I begin, my voice barely a whisper, “and that was the magic of a Shade.” Shades, or shadow wielders, have not been seen in centuries, a long-extinct subset of Winter magic.
Mace slumps back in his seat, his hands running through his increasingly disheveled black hair. His piercing green eyes lock with mine, and I try to search for answers amidst the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in his mind. “How did she come across a Witch’s Ladder?” he mutters, a note of bewilderment cracking his voice.
I shake my head, my confusion mirroring his. “Perhaps it’s a family heirloom,” I suggest, my attention drawn back to the connection before us as Viola yanks the head from the creature and throws it.
“But Witch’s Ladders needs a magic source to work,” Mace whispers.
When I turn to question Mace about his statement, I find the room empty.
The morning after the brutal Wendigo massacre, Plume is still visibly distraught over the role she played. Her voice quivers as she expresses guilt, “I couldn’t control the Wendigo. I couldn’t force him. It felt like my magic was missing.” Plume’s Spring magic allows for not just manipulation of beasts but control over the dead in quick bursts of reanimation. But being neither alive nor dead, it does not surprise me to hear that the Wendigo is not susceptible to it.
I offer a comforting pat on her shoulder, attempting to ease some of her tension. “You should have seen it. It was incredible. You’re okay,” I reassure her softly. Her sniffles are audible as she breathes.
‘“I need some sleep,” Plume mumbles, her gaze drifting across the still-empty command center. The sun has barely joined the sky, and most Patricians have yet to arrive. I’ve been here for several hours, wanting more insight into Mace’s state of mind, but there has yet to be a sign of him.
The connection flickers through the Racers, capturing their awakening moments as they prepare for the day’s challenges. At this stage of the Race, the citizens of Ytopie have clear favorites, and soon, we will be closing in on someone reaching the arena. Among the favored Racers is Viola Mistflow, who has garnered a substantial following and attracted significant bets in her favor. I can only imagine the buzz that will ensue in the taverns today following her impressive encounter with the Wendigo.
While helping myself to a mug of tea and a sweet, flaky pastry, I watch Mace enter the room.
If it is possible, he appears even worse than he did the previous night. His clothing remains unchanged, his eyes bloodshot, and his shaggy black hair stands up at all angles from the persistent raking of his fingers. Sliding into the seat beside me at the head of the table, he barely even registers my existence. Stone, the ever-attentive advisor, takes a seat on Mace’s other side. He whispers in Mace’s ear, and Mace visibly relaxes, his shoulders moving from their seemingly permanent spot near his ears.
Silently, I exchange a panicked glance with Stone, conveying the unspoken question, “What the fuck is wrong with Mace?” Our eyes meet, and he responds with a barely perceptible shrug. He rises to fetch Mace a cup of tea out of a paternal concern. Mace drains the cup hastily, his gaze fixed unyieldingly on the connection.
The connection abruptly shifts from showing a group of fifteen Racers eating around a smoldering fire, laughing and enjoying the Race for the pilgrimage it should always have been. When the vision settles, my eyes land on Viola Mistflow and her companions, Max and Tulip. They are navigating the treacherous mountain face, their steady progress putting them within the possibility of winning the Race.
Initially, I do not pay close attention. It is a mundane feed of them scaling a vertical rock section, and truthfully, I’m unsure why it’s lingered on them for so long. Despite my inexplicable connection to her, I have tuned the feed out to observe Mace. The same cannot be said for him, as he’s resting his chin in his hands and not breaking his stare from the trio, absorbing their movements as if there is nothing more he’d rather do today.
From the connection, a phrase catches my ear, compelling me to focus on the women.
“Look around us, Lola. Everything’s a myth. The origin of the fae, Wendigos, seps… they’re all myths. And what have we learned over the past few days? Myths can come true.”
Mace stiffens beside me, his back rigid in yesterday’s black button-up. Glancing at his hands, I notice his nails digging into his palms as he clenches his fists. He’s frozen on the connection, his bright eyes unblinking.
Tulip’s words resonate with me, as I, too, have seen the myths come true. The Godswerecast out. And no one knows how to bring them back.
I cast a sidelong glance at Mace, who remains rigid and unyielding, unaware of my scrutiny. His hands tremble ever so slightly, and his focus remains eerily unbroken, glued to Viola as her dominating form commands the screen.
Mace’s draw to Viola must be a perversion of my own. I feel the need to protect her from him and help her grow as a person. At this point, I am starting to believe she is a promise made to me.
