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My entire life, I have worked towards coming to Ytopie, training alongside my parents to be the fastest, strongest, and sharpest. I finally achieved the goal I have had my entire life, and rather than get to enjoy it, I am thrust into an impossible decision.
The men here have tried to put a label on me from the first day.
They call me vessel.
They call me Winter.
They call me God.
It wasn’t until I was faced with a broken and bloody Mace that I was able to hide the noise of everyone else and start to think about who I think I am.
I am Viola Mistflow. I am my father’s daughter. And I am no longer afraid.
While I am still not convinced that I am the vessel they need, I accept now that I am the last, the only, Winter Seasonale, which must mean something in the grand scheme of things.
How can I be hurt summoning the God whose power blesses me?
And maybe today, I will still die.
Maybe I will be leaving Tulip alone, broken.
I stop walking.
“Mace,” I say, grabbing his arm. He skids to still and looks at me.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asks, somewhat hopefully. I cannot imagine the war within him as he balances his duty to his people and his burgeoning feelings for me.
I shake my head sadly and meet his gaze. “Tulip. Promise me you will not let Stone execute her. She gets to live. She gets a home, a life, and a family. That is what I want in exchange for me doing this.”
His hands grip mine, large and firm. “Of course, Viola. I would never let anything happen to her. You have my word.”
With that, I continue the march towards my future, whatever it may entail.
Inside, the garrison is quiet and reserved. It feels like a place of worship rather than a command center. Stone sits at a table under the vaulted ceilings, face bowed over a yellowed volume. When Mace and I enter, hand in hand, I see the disgust drip off Stone’s face.
“I see you heeded my warning about growing too close to the vessel,” he drawls.
The venom in his voice towards Mace lights inside me, but before I can lash out, I hear Mace’s voice. “Her name is Viola. She is more than just a vessel.”
The words, so simple and yet so powerful, wash over me. Of course, he’d said as much to me before, but this was to Stone. Stone, who has been his partner in this for years, whom he had been working towards this with for centuries. I watch Stone’s lip curl, his frustration with Mace’s rebuke obvious.
“Whatever you think she is, it doesn’t matter. She’s here for one purpose. She was born for this moment.”
“I grow tired of you speaking about me as if I am not here, Stone.” His head whips towards me with my words, and I get the feeling that if he didn’t need me alive, we’d be having a very different conversation.
“Of course, Miss Mistflow, my apologies. Please, your position in the ritual is right over here.”
The last time I was here, I did not spend much time observing the garrison, more focused on figuring out why the elevator was not the winning path I had been led to believe it was. Now I see the high, vaulted ceilings carved out of natural rock, sparsely appointed with furniture and bookcases. The cobwebs and slightly damp smell give a distinct impression that this space is rarely used.
Stone crosses the rotunda to a small stage built against the wall. On it lays a stone altar of black and ice blue quartz, a large basin atop it. An ornamental blade of black obsidian with red jewels in the hilt lies beside it. On the ground in front of the stage are three podiums of varying colors.
A burnt orange and faded brown for Avidor, the Harvest Lord.
Swirling pinks and bright greens for Amaryn, the Bloomtide.
Brilliant reds and yellows for Solarius, the Radiant Sunfire.
In this room, we will summon a God.
