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I tackle him from behind and he goes down hard. Flipping him over, I climb over him with effortless grace, dodging his vain attempts at a struggle. Taking his left arm, I lift it above his head and jam my knife straight through his wrist, the blade burrowing into the earth underneath.
He howls in pain, tears streaking through the blood from the wound across his eye. Pinning his other arm under my leg, I grab his face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks together. His skin is slippery under my touch, wet from blood and tears.
I let out a small tut, followed by a few tsks. “Have a bit of decorum,” I say casually while I dig my finger into the wound on his face. His howls turn to wailing pleas. “No one likes a bellyacher.”
Leaning over, I pull the knife out of his wrist, his screams only intensifying. Tugging his shirt up, I slowly dig the blade into his soft stomach, carving a W with the sharp tip. My eyes skate up to his face, and I flash him a grin. “I hope you’re honored,” Isay as I spread the fresh blood over his stomach with my open palm. “To be marked by a Vainglory before you die.”
I hear another terrified scream from a few paths away, and my fingers begin to tingle with anticipation. My smile widens. I bury my blade in his gut. His eyes grow wide, his shocked gasp dying on his lip as I pull the serrated blade up to his ribs.
Pulling it out, I slam it back down, this time through his heart, breaking through the sternum. The knife squelches through blood, bones, and organs as I stab him repeatedly. I am enraptured by the sight of my sacrifice slowly waning beneath me. I don’t stop when his eyes turn glassy and lifeless, only when my arm grows heavy and tired.
Pushing myself off the corpse, I try to catch my breath as I wipe the blood dripping over my eye with the back of my hand, knife still in hand. I take a few haggard steps forward and fall to my knees.
I peer up at the moon and grin foolishly.
I feel light-headed—intoxicated even—as I try to repress the uncontrollable laughter bubbling in my chest.
A small tingle at the back of my neck has my gaze jumping to movement ahead.
A few yards away, Mercy appears at the mouth of the path, cloaked in moonlight and gore. She takes a few steps and then stops, her dagger loosely clutched in her hand. Her dress is ripped, uncovering the swell of one of her breasts, strands of her black hair, wet with blood, sticking to her face.
My breathing slows as I silently take her in, reluctant to alert her of my presence.
I’ve never seen her so … at peace before.
Her eyebrows are smooth of any divots, green eyes devoid of their usual hardness. She wipes the blade of her dagger on her tattered dress while smiling up at the moon before she walks down the opposite path.
I stare at where she disappeared for much longer than I care to admit.
After a few minutes, I find the strength to stand up and exit the maze before the adrenaline plummets and the bone-deep exhaustion takes over.
I need my beauty sleep.
Because tomorrow, the Lottery begins.
14
WOLFGANG
The wild power pulsating inside of me since the Feast of Fools last night has only ramped up in intensity and urgency now that I’ve stepped inside the cavernous hall where the Lottery takes place.
I’ve never seen the space with my own eyes—none of the heirs have—needing to be a minimum of eighteen to participate. Being the eldest of the six, I was just shy of seeing the hall nineteen years ago.
The stone is cold under my bare feet as I step further into the hall, furtively looking up and around, slowly taking it in. The vast cavern is on the lowest subterranean floor of Mount Pravitia, lit up entirely by torches and candles, the flames dancing alongside the shadows on the walls.
It’s made mostly out of marble with a soaring arched ceiling, and at its center is a large circular platform crafted entirely of black obsidian, the inky hue seeming to swallow any light that comes near it. The space around the circular platform is split into six sections, one for each family.
A crowd has already gathered, and countless pairs of eyes turn to watch our approach to the large platform as we file in, one after the other.
Although this is a sacred and private ritual, all immediate and extended family members over the age of eighteen are required to attend. Typically, I relish being the center of attention, but today, the weight of their stare feels tender against my skin.
I split from our small group to join the Vainglorys. Walking past cousins I haven’t seen since prep school and uncles I was convinced were dead, I make my way to the front of the group, only a few steps away from the platform.
Other than a few throats being cleared and muffled coughs, the silence is ominous. It’s as if it has wrapped itself around the very molecules in the air and is whispering our fate in our ears.
When all heirs have joined their respective families, a woman steps onto the platform, her long tunic dress as black as the obsidian under her bare feet. Her white hair is plaited into a crown around her head, the wrinkled skin around her pale blue eyes painted gold. The six sigils of the ruling families are tattooed on her aging skin, three on the inside of each forearm.
Although I’ve never seen her before I immediately recognize her as the Oracle.
