Page 6 of Change

I still didn’t get it. Wasn’t the very definition of ‘heirloom’ that an item was to be passed directly to relatives?

His phrasing was odd, and a little bit alarming. I was almost afraid to ask for more information.

But it was too late to back out now.

“What ‘ritual’?” I asked, biting my lip as he raised his eyebrow.

“The coliseum.” Dr. Stephens crossed his arms as he leaned back in his seat with a smirk. “It is a humbling, yet thrilling, rite of passage.”

The coliseum? “You mean like… Roman gladiators?”

“Yes, they may have elaborated on the idea in order to suit their purposes. But rest assured, the fae came up with it first.”

“Came up withwhat?” I stared at the innocent looking ring laying in the middle of Dr. Stephens’s desk. “How exactly do youwinthe right to this ring?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Dr. Stephens did sound genuinely pleased. He stroked his chin, attention drifting past my shoulder in contemplative pride. “It’s good to show interest in your own culture.”

But that wasn’t why I was asking—I couldn’t care less about ‘culture’ at the moment. I only wanted to know why this normally expressionless man was so very moved at this very odd topic.

“When the youngest male of a generation reaches the age of maturity, that is, eleven cycles on this earth, every ancient family of renown joins together in a Right to Inheritance ritual.”

What in the world…

“As men, we prepare our whole lives for this moment, and when we enter the coliseum, we are no longer standing amongst our cousins and brothers. With the jewelry as our prize, everyone is an enemy.” Dr. Stephens was still gazing into the distance. “Once the winner is chosen, the ring is returned to the family estate’s treasury for safekeeping until we’ve met the one worthy of it, and we can then carry on the tradition.”

What the heck?

I blinked at him—he still seemed unmoved by my stunned silence. There was no way I was understanding this correctly, because if I was, then…

“Are you saying that your family throws your children into a pit so they can fight to the death for a stupid ring?” It was so idiotic. And pointless. Hadn’t the fae ever heard of a jewelry store?

Dr. Stephens frowned at me—I’d clearly offended him. “It’s not a pit, it’s acoliseum. And stop worrying, no one usuallydies. It’s all in good fun. I won my year, and your father, his. Bryce as well.” He narrowed his eyes at my finger now. “Although, you know he’ll need that back if he ever wants to get married, right? It’s passed on through every generation.”

“No, it’s mine now.” I pulled my sleeve down over my hand. “He said so. He gave it to me.”

Maybe this wasn’t as horrible as I’d first imagined. If no one died, and it wasn’t that serious, then some competitive play wasn’t all that bad.

It was completely normal to wrestle over beautiful jewelry. Such activities tended to build character and might even be good training. In nature, too, battle was a way for the male to show prowess for potential partners. Having a ring was a nice touch—I always believed in encouraging excellence.

Would some people think it extreme to give youngsters magical items that would determine the course of their entire future? Maybe. Logically, though, what was the harm? After all, why shouldn’t the strongest little bugger reap the reward of a secure and prosperous future?

“Accidents do happen sometimes, though, and long-time grudges are born. Caleb lost his pinky toe; even in death, he’s still bitter,” Dr. Stephens said nonchalantly as he dipped one of the yellow cookies into his coffee mug. “Then your father tore off a piece of your uncle’s ear, but that might have been an accident. Sometimes things can get rather heated and chaotic.”

“What?” My previous sense of foreboding returned. “You’re losing body parts for this ritual? That’snotroughhousing! What in the world is thepoint?”

And how did youaccidentallytear off part of an ear?

Dr. Stephens frowned at me, openly sad that I did not approve. He set down the cookie and linked his hands on the desk in front of him. “You, dear, have so much to learn about our people. We’re notmen, we’refae.We can handle some everyday, surface-level maiming. We’re made to be resilient, and fae have a higher pain tolerance.”

I sucked in a breath—long-healed, but never forgotten, echoes of pain, shot through me.

He’dsaid something like that once. An offhand comment about my resilience.

It could have been a coincidence, but… there was no such thing these days.

Was it possible that Mr. Richards knew who I was?

“You’re talking about the b-boys, right? B-but w-what about g-girls…” I stared at Dr. Stephens’s hands. The muscles in his fingers went taunt as I spoke. “Are they strong, or…”