Page 6 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the stories the girls shared—truthfully, she found them enticing and full of things she had too little of: leisure and pleasure. But Emmeline had spent her entire life on the outside. She was a jagged edge that never quite pieced with her peers exactly right, no matter how badly a part of her wanted to belong.

The men and women who worked at the Academy with her were welcoming enough, but there was always that initial beat of hesitation. Every room she stepped into, a lull followed. A look over a shoulder. An extra breath before the next sentence.

Often, as a girl, it was because she was shy. She never allowed others to get to know her. Here, it was because her position afforded her certain privileges, such as her nights reading at the cliffs rather than monitoring the corridors for rebellious students.

And truthfully, she used that distinction to avoid allowing others to get to know her too deeply.

Beneath the water, her nails scraped at the latticework of crescent-shaped scars along her thighs.

Flashes of blood dripping from a bedframe.

A knife sinking into a gut.

A cool, unwelcome hiss against her skin.

Her breath hitched, fingers curling into her flesh.

No. No one could get to know her. She needed to keep everyone out. To keep everyone safe.

“Emmeline?” Liana’s voice pierced her reverie as she peered around the partition, applying yet another layer of oils to her skin. “What in the Fates’ good names happened to your boots?”

Liana flung a hand toward the wash basin. Emmeline’s gaze drifted down to the crimson speckles coating the brown leather peeking out from beside her pack. Her heart stuttered, but she tilted her head as if noticing for the first time, masterfully masking any worry over being noticed.

“I took the path through the vineyards home tonight. Some grapes must have fallen from the vines early.”

Liana shrugged, flouncing back around the partition when Regina squealed about the new imports of wine that were arriving this week. After months of being stuck with only Lyra’s varietals, it was a treat. One that had a familiar longing beating through Emmeline’s chest.

Not for the vintage. For the innocent joy it afforded them all.

She reclined against the rim of the tub, spinning her opal ring around her finger. As she slipped beneath the surface, she knew it was an ache she couldn’t indulge.

Chapter Three

Roremar

“Has it always tasted like piss?” Roremar Silventa muttered as he fell onto the sofa in the basement apartment of his best friend, Desmond’s, tattoo parlor and swallowed another large gulp of the bitter ale. The russet velvet fabric was worn, the arm beneath his elbow nearly void of color after years of stress on the surface.

“Expert on the taste of piss, are you?” Desmond chided, smirking. He planted his feet wide, leaning back in the creaking wooden chair beside the sofa. The mismatched furniture surrounded the fireplace, a log just sparking to life in the stone hearth. Though the Constellation Isles never got too frigid, the warmth and the accompanying smoky scent worked its way beneath Roremar’s skin, encouraging his tense muscles to unwind.

“Sure, from great experience,” he said dryly, studying the patterns of the dancing flames as if he could memorize them. “I mean it, has the ale on the Isle always tasted so horrible?”

Desmond shrugged, picking at a splinter in the arm of the chair. “From what I hear, they’re importing cheaper stuff each month.”

A cheer echoed from the street above as drunken fools bet on some card game Roremar couldn’t care less about. Spirits, he didn’t know the last time he did something so unintentional, like getting absolutely wasted and stumbling down the Promenade of Revels, indulging in whatever entertainment the isle provided for the night.

He rarely had time for fun anymore, and when he did, it didn’t feel right. Not with so many responsibilities on his shoulders.

“Lack of quality doesn’t seem to deter anyone from the taverns or liquor bars,” he said, planting his elbow on one of the throw pillows and sinking into the cushions.

“Circumstances get worse, people get more desperate for a hint of frivolity. A tale as old as the Angels.” Desmond pulled out the band tying back his dark-blond hair, running his tattooed fingers through it. “It’s not a new development. The Promenade is lit up more often than not these nights. People are getting creative in filling their time. Two nights ago, a woman was dancing with starfire right outside my door, collecting coins in a little dish for the performance.”

“Starfire?” Roremar repeated, scoffing.

“So she claims. She was some fanatic down from one of the jungle settlements.”

“Probably an illusion.” As if the Fates or Angel or any Spiritsdamned higher being out there would provide easy access to something as rare and powerful as starfire purely for entertainment’s sake. It was only conjured in strictly monitored ceremonies, typically requiring some kind of divine intervention or blessed oils.

“Served its purpose for entertainment,” Desmond said, taking a swig of his drink. He smirked. “She did, too.”