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“Mace!” Stone stomps across the courtyard, interrupting my sentence. I take a step back from Viola, and the loss of my proximity shows on her face for a trice.
“Stone. Back so soon?” My stomach drops at the implication of his return.
He glowers at me, eyes darting between Viola and myself. “It’s tonight. Get her ready.”
Viola tenses, and when her eyes meet mine, I see strength, resilience, and fear.
Chapter 46
Mace
Onewouldthinkthatbeing a society with nearly limitless opportunities for magic, I, as its leader, would not be beholden to paperwork.
But alas, there are some things magic can’t do.
After Stone’s proclamation of tonight being ritual night, Viola insisted she was fine and implored me not to follow her as she left into the Palace and returned to her basement home. With my moment of peace shattered, I had to busy myself, or I would drive myself crazy with worry about her and end up making a fool of myself chasing after her. My heart breaks for what is to come. For the fact that my time with this incredible woman may be soon coming to an end.
I rest my head on the smooth wooden top of my desk, groaning at the imposition of tedious work I have to complete when I would much rather be anywhere else. The lighting in my office is low and warm, the wide window behind my desk open to let in some of the cool night air. My bookshelves, full of my favorite scholarly journals and accounts of each Patrician head’s career, are messy with unfiled paperwork I have shoved haphazardly into any free spot. There are no personal touches here, just the office of someone who has never had anywhere better to be.
Until now.
I am unable to get my mind off Viola, and the words on the papers before me seem to swim and rearrange themselves to spell her name, begging my focus on the woman I was hopeless to ignore from the beginning. I blink rapidly to clear the vision that my brain conjured up in my inability to focus. The looming ritual, which Stone is insisting on doing tonight, threatens me like a phantom bent on destroying me.
I have been trying to look over the fact that I all but confessed my feelings to her when I was broken in her arms, and she changed the subject fairly swiftly. But the more time I spend with her, the more time I want to remind her of the things she makes me feel. I want to tell her again that I meant what I said, that I am infatuated by her. That when she smiles, I feel like my heart could explode, swollen by the pure joy she inspires in me.
But maybe she changed the subject because she doesn’t feel the same way. The thought is enough to dry my mouth with fear, and I know I will not bring up my burgeoning feelings with her again.
After all, how could she ever feel that way about me?
It’s selfish of me to want her, I realize that. Not for the first time I think that maybe this is my punishment for all the wrongs I’ve committed. Doomed to care for a woman who could never see me the same way.
My hands are stained with the blood of so many, and while I was not the one that drew the blade across her parent’s necks, I stood by idly. I put Link into a ritual he was wholly unprepared and unwilling to participate in and watched as his life drained from him. How could she forgive me for that?
Of course, the reasoning behind the slaughter was just, but does that excuse the action? Stone seems to believe it does. He thinks that the Gods will be so grateful to have been brought back that they will forgive all our deceits. I argued for ages that if that was the case, people would willingly sacrifice themselves and their magic to bring the Gods back and earn their favor and that if we approached this with pure honesty, all of our society could work toward the problem together and come up with a more elegant solution than the repeated slaughter of humans. But Stone’s opinions of humans are not as high as mine, and he believed they couldn’t be trusted to make the right choice.
Try as I might, Stone was as immovable as his name, and I lost every argument.
And so, we proceeded, cutting down winners and hiding the truth from our citizens. Every year, I had to lie with a smile to the people I wanted to save. If it was up to me, Himureal would strike me down the minute we bring him back, the blood on my hands too thick to wash clean.
But it is not up to me. Only the Gods will be able to absolve me of my transgressions, and until then, I will bear the weight of my actions and inaction so my people do not have to.
Everything I’ve done is for my people, including those of the Lowlands. I want them to live safe, happy lives with access to the magic they need to thrive. I want the Race to finally, blessedly stop, with no need to search for a vessel any longer. I want Ytopie and the Lowlands to unite as one nation and the land to be as it was before the banishing.
But until then, paperwork.
“Wow, Mace, don’t look so excited to see me.”
I jerk my eyes away from the document before me, some droll application for a community bonfire to celebrate the Equinox, to see Cirrha leaning in my doorway. Her arms are across her chest, and she’s clothed in a shimmering gold dress that stops at her knees, her rich dark skin glowing in compliment to the luxe fabric. “Cirrha, my apologies. Just lamenting all the documents I must sign when I would rather be elsewhere.”
Her face stretches with a wide grin, and she slips into a chair in front of me. “I am sure you would much rather be with Viola Mistflow, Mace.”
My scowl doesn’t reach my eyes as I pin her with a look. Cirrha and I have worked together as Patricians for decades now, and she, of all the others, has broken through my shell and been able to tear down the wall I must build when I lead this city.
“That obvious, huh?”
She snorts. “Exceedingly. I’ve never seen you sit on the ground before.”
A flush creeps up the back of my neck. “You saw that, huh?”
