Page 44 of Beasts of Shadows #1

I don’t know how long I stay outside.

Long enough for the chill to bite through the rust-toned satin like it’s fabric-shaming me.

Long enough for the ache in my throat to settle into something numb.

Long enough to stop hoping the gods will give me a single moment that doesn’t feel like a test.

I draw a breath. Just one. Then shove off the wall and walk back inside.

Because I’m done feeling sorry for myself.

The music’s changed again when I reenter. Not just the tune—everything. The lighting has gone dim, like the candles themselves are holding their breath. The violins trail off mid-phrase. And the cold?

It sharpens.

Not weather-cold. Not even magic-cold.

This is the kind of chill that means something’s wrong. The kind that crawls into your teeth.

People start to turn. A hush spreads like a contagion.

I follow their gaze—and feel my stomach drop.

Because of course.

Calea.

She’s older than I expected, for being a goddess. Her eyes are crippled with age, barely able to see. Her skin shriveled; spine twisted.

Still, it hasn’t stopped her from exuding the grace you’d expect in a Mother Goddess.

She doesn’t walk down the stairs. She descends.

Snow doesn’t fall around her so much as pause. The frost at her feet winds down the steps like it’s paving her way in real time. A neat little runway of ruin.

She’s dressed in white, naturally. But not bridal white. Not cream or pearl.

No. Her dress is the color of extinction. Bleached bone. Glacier-stripped mountains. The aftermath of things that don’t grow back.

Ice halos her like an afterthought. Her braid glitters with shards like broken promises. And her eyes.

Gods, her eyes.

They find me.

Not immediately. That would be too obvious.

But eventually. Like gravity tilting in my direction. Like fate just checking in to say, Hey, still watching you bleed from the shadows.

My spine locks.

I try to breathe. Fail.

My tattoo—it hums. Not warm. Not safe. Just… alert. Like it wants to flee my skin entirely and let me deal with the consequences alone.

Calea stops mid-landing. No flourish. No fanfare. Just inevitability draped in silk and snow.

Her gaze drags across the room like a scythe.

Then she lifts a goblet. Something carved from ice and bone and old money.

Her voice is smooth. Pleasant. Like she’s reading a bedtime story right before devouring the listener.

“To survival,” she says. “To beauty in winter. And to those who bloom under pressure.”

A few students raise their cups—sloppy and nervous. The kinds of cheers people make when they’re not sure if applause or silence is the safest choice. The kind of sound you make when the predator’s smiling.

Reema, who’s apparently returned from her midnight rendezvous, doesn’t cheer. Neither does Cat.

Jeremy just edges half an inch closer, like he might actually throw hands with a goddess if it came to that.

Calea lowers her glass. Doesn’t sip. Doesn’t blink.

Her gaze stays on me a breath too long.

I try to look away.

I don’t.

Because I want her to know I’m not scared.

And then—she smiles.

Not wide. Not dramatic. Just enough that I feel it behind my ribs.

Like she knows.

Knows about the vow.

Knows about the seals.

Knows I’ve been looking.

Knows I’m already losing.

She turns. Takes her seat at the golden table like she owns it—and maybe she does. The other gods shift around her like lesser stars bending toward gravity.

The room finally exhales.

People blink. Murmurs resume.

But I’m still frozen.

Still reeling.

Because in that one moment—just before she turned—there was something in her eyes.

Not rage.

Not cruelty.

Worse.

Amusement.

#

“Nari!”

I turn—too fast—and catch a rampant Ashki as she launches into my arms.

It’s like being tackled by a snowstorm in human form: light but jarring, all limbs and sudden emotion. She smells like burnt sugar and frost. Like magic that hasn’t made up its mind.

“Easy,” I say, steadying us both. “You trying to dislocate my shoulder?”

Ashki beams up at me like I just made her year. “Maybe. You look like you needed it.”

Fair. I probably do.

But I can’t focus on her, not really—not with the girl standing just behind.

Beautiful is too small a word. The girl behind Ashki doesn’t glow—she commands. Every part of her is sharpened by ceremony, wrapped in formal Native regalia.

A dress of soft, hand-tanned hide clings to her with the gravity of ritual, its fringe swaying like tallgrass at the edge of a storm.

Every line of beadwork is intentional, telling stories I don’t know—stories stitched into the yoke in thunderbird blues and sunrise golds, pulled tight with sinew and history.

Around her neck, a long bone breastplate hangs over her chest like armor, flanked by a choker so delicately quilled it looks like it might hum if I listen hard enough.

Her moccasins gleam under the hall’s dim lights—each bead perfectly in place, each stitch a prayer. Her long, chocolate hair frames her face, adorned with feathers and silver clasps that catch the light like tiny stars. A medallion rests at her sternum, sacred and solemn.

She doesn’t smile. She watches me with eyes like polished flint—steady, assessing, ancient.

And for one disorienting moment, I can’t tell if I want to impress her… or survive her.

Ashki practically vibrates beside me, still latched to my waist. “Nari, this is Matoaka. She’s my sister and, like, the coolest person in the whole freaking world.”

I believe it.

Calea hasn’t moved. But I swear she’s still watching. Or maybe it’s just the room itself holding its breath.

The girl steps forward—slow, unhurried, like she owns the floor she walks on—and extends a hand.

Up close, her skin glows faintly, like starlight caught in ice.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Ashki. Thank you for keeping her safe when she performed her service to the school.” Her voice is soft. Velvet over steel. She’s got to be a few years younger than me, so not a student. But not a mortal, either.

“Sure,” I manage, peering at Ashki again. “I mean, she’s a kid.”

“And you’re the girl who’s going to save us.”

Matoaka says the words low. But her eyes remain hard and watchful.

My mouth dries.

“Me? I’m not going to—.”

Ashki doesn’t seem to notice the shift—the tension in my spine, the weight in the air. But I do.

So does Matoaka.

She drops her hand, smile never faltering. “We’ll be in touch come the Time of the Snow Eaters. When it’s safe.”

I glance past her, back toward the ballroom. Calea’s still seated, still sipping nothing from that bone-white goblet.

But something’s shifted.

The air is thinner.

The stakes are higher.

And I’ve just made eye contact with something that might be her emissary—or her rival.

“Come along, Ashki,” Matoaka says, voice like snowmelt. “Let’s give the seer her space.”

Ashki frowns. “But—.”

“She’ll find us when she’s ready.”

She turns without waiting. Ashki hesitates, glancing at me. I nod once.

And just like that, they vanish down the corridor, their steps too soft, too precise.

Like they’re not quite touching the ground.

Like I imagined it all.

But I didn’t.

I never do.

I reenter the ballroom too slow, too aware of the air’s wrongness. The others don’t seem to notice the tilt. They sip their drinks, resume their dances, laugh a little too loud. Like maybe if they pretend hard enough, they’ll survive the night.

Then the bell rings.

No instrument, no source. Just a sound that splits the air like it’s announcing war in the most elegant way possible.

“Time for the processional,” someone murmurs.

A ripple runs through the mortals. Students straighten, fall into nervous half-lines like sheep at a sacrificial pageant.

At the front of the ballroom, the gods rise. Not all of them. Just the ones who matter. Or think they do.

And at the center of it all—Calea.

She hasn’t moved. But somehow, she’s already in position. Perched on the upper dais, a gloved hand curled over the edge of her frost-gilded throne, as if she might tip it all over with the flick of a wrist.

The staff begin to call names.

One by one, students cross the floor.

One by one, they bow.

Not a dip. Not a nod. A bow—deep, formal, practiced. Rehearsed since orientation, when we were told this would be “a rare and sacred opportunity” to honor the divine.

Honor. Sure.

If honor means bending your spine before a creature who could snap it on a whim.

I hover in the back, trying not to draw attention. Maybe I can stall. Maybe my name won’t get called.

It does.

“Harpia,” someone calls, mangling it like a mouthful of gravel. “Nari Harper.”

Of course.

My feet move before I can decide if I want them to.

Each step echoes. The hem of my rust-toned jumpsuit brushes my ankles like warning bells. The candlelight casts long shadows. I can feel her watching—Calea—before I even lift my eyes.

She’s still seated. Still solemn.

But she’s waiting.

I reach the center of the ballroom and stop.

The room has gone quiet again. Like everyone knows this part might end badly.

I bow.

Not perfectly. Not eagerly.

Just low enough to be respectful. Just slow enough to make it clear I’m doing this because I have to—not because I believe she’s earned it.

My muscles lock halfway through.

It’s instinct. Something primal, bitter, ancient. Every nerve screaming don’t show her your neck.

But I force it. I bend.

The silence stretches. Long enough that I begin to sweat.

Then—cold fingers beneath my chin.

Not touching.

Just there.

Lifting.

I straighten slowly, spine like a drawn bowstring, until my gaze meets hers.

Calea stares at me.

Really stares.

Not at my dress. Not at my hands. At me.

Like she’s reading something written in blood beneath my skin.

Her eyes glow faintly. No whites. No irises. Just a thousand winters, old and endless.

She tilts her head.

Then—barely—she leans forward.

The mark on my wrist hums. Not in warning. Not in pain.

In recognition.

I resist the urge to cover it.