Page 10 of On Broken Bonds

I am beginning to turn that thought over when the roofline of our home rises into view. A faint echo of screams rolls toward us, and I can only just make out several figures at the base of the stairs leading to the house’s front porch.

And with those figures, I clearly see the lilac kick of Lyra’s skirts, creating a wave of color in the air. One of the men is lifting her off her feet.

“Lyra!”

The pain in my ribs flares white hot as I bolt forward, gathering my skirts in both hands. Logic vanishes beneath the thunder of my pulse.

There is only my sister. Only the sight of her struggling against those hands. Only the desperate need to reach her before it is too late.

“Nyx!” Just ten feet away, I see Lyra orient herself to me, her tear-stained face visible through the locks of her hair that have come loose and are fanning out over her face. “Help! Nyx, he⁠—”

She cuts off when one of the men claps a hand over her mouth, stifling her.

From their clothes and steeds, the way they hold themselves, it’s obvious to me that they’re blades for the gods. Everyone knows who they are. And everyone knows better than to challenge them.

Hilda is a few steps behind, another of the men holding her arms behind her back in what looks like a painful embrace.

The rage boils through my body, like it’s bubbling up the back of my throat and coating my teeth. I can taste it, feel it itching up behind the backs of my eyes.

After everything, everything this fucking world has put us through, I cannot handle this. Not my sister in harm’s way the moment I leave the house for a second.

“Unhand her!” I scream, and the men must not have seen me coming, even with Lyra’s shrieks in my direction, because they turn, clearly surprised at my presence.

Perhaps “unhand her” was too dramatic, because it makes the man holding my sister begin to laugh. My magic, responding to the anger pulsing through my veins, begins to pool in my fingertips like blood desperately needing recirculation.

But I don’t want to recirculate it. I want to gather it and direct it towards the men who have dared to walk onto my land, to put their hands on my sister.

“Come now,” the man in front says. He’s wearing a gold piercing right through his ear, his dark eyes shining with mirth. He holds up his hands as though he might be able to reason with me. “We tried asking her nicely.”

“Nyx—” Ivor wheezes, finally having caught up with me, having labored under the weight of the bag and his old age. I put out a hand to stop him, my eyes fixed on the man at the front.

“What is the meaning of this?” I ask, flicking my gaze from him to the others. These are not Shaw’s men. They’re not associated with the loan holders my parents borrowed from. They’re too honeyed, too…cosmopolitan. Their smocks are creamy and unwrinkled, their skin smooth, their eyes lacking the hunger that comes from living in this part of the world.

In fact, their eyes hold a different hunger all together. One that’s been recently sated.

Vampires.

“We come bearing good news,” the man in front says, one perfect eyebrow arching up. “Lady Lyra Nocturne has been selected as this year’s Courted Prize.”

All that rage, in fact, all the blood, drains from my body and my breath leaves me.

When we were little, Lyra and I used to whisper about the Courted Prize beneath our blankets long after we were ordered to sleep. To children, it had sounded like it belonged in a storybook. Each year, one noble daughter was chosen by the gods and brought to the capital, draped in silks, showered in riches, and promised as the bride of whichever victor emerged from the Eternal Trials. This made it so the winners of the Eternal Trials would receive not just all the other gifts from the gods when they won—lands, wealth, and minor godhood—but also so they could marry someone with a title too, elevating their position in the world.

Back then, we imagined glittering ballrooms and grand declarations, the sort of foolish fantasies little girls build from half truths and pretty lies.

We had not yet been old enough to understand what was really being offered.

Now, as women, we better understand the implications of being married to those not of your own choosing. To be taken from your home and sold as a prize to the victors. To then be forced to manage your husbands, especially if one or more of them was of poor constitution or, in many cases, cruel.

It was common, especially for ladies in this part of the world, to be signed away to an entire brood of husbands without their discretion.

Our mother made it clear that we would choose our own partners, after our education. After Valtor cursed our family, the idea of ever being chosen as the Courted Prize was laughable at best. Only families in favor could be considered.

“That’s right,” the man says, registering my surprise and meeting it with a congratulatory, sharp-toothed smile. With a brief glance back toward the manor, he mutters, “Might be the best thing to happen to this place.”

“She can’t go,” I insist, stepping in front of their horses, even as they swing up onto them without concern, their eyes seeming to look through me. “She’s sick.”

“The gods have chosen,” one says, practically rolling his eyes at me, as though he never would have thought to meet a lady so ungrateful for an honor like this.