Page 7

And They Do Not Blink

“ I ’ve never seen one like this before.”

A soft murmur ripples through the crowd.

“Your ability is unique. Exquisitely rare. And dangerous, remember that. Dangerous.”

Lavaeia Celiwyn nods, her face glowing like a moonlit night. Her pale-blond, delicately curled hair is gathered into an intricate style at the nape of her neck. Jewels hang in fine threads, draping over her head and shoulders and cascading down skin as fair as her hair.

“You possess an impressive ability,” says the shaman, Panrielya Valas, “to summon vines and plants from your palms.”

The crowd erupts, cheering and clapping louder now that Lavaeia, ever the favorite, is in the spotlight.

“You can command nature and bend it to your will. Plants and forests will become a part of you. It may not sound powerful, but believe me, it is. With this ability, you can strangle your enemies in the blink of an eye.”

I cross my arms, my eyes narrowing.

“With this ability,” she continues, “you can pull anyone within thirty elven lengths toward you. Magically.” She closes her eyes, her hands moving in slow, graceful arcs.

Her wild, mauve hair is thick and untamed, tangling around her arms, coiling like seaweed caught in the tide. “No one will escape when you’re near.”

I cast Lavaeia another dark glance. Her blue eyes are distant and cold, and her lips are painted a deep blood-red, likely stained with petals from the rare ruby flower. It costs one hundred forty-five dryads at the market and is far beyond what anyone in my family could afford.

Lavaeia is the younger sister of Tilstarael Celiwyn, Stara, who waves lazily from the front row, an arrogant smile on her lips. I scan the crowd for my family but can’t find them among the sea of faces.

We stand on the ground in Circle Valley, a vast circular clearing surrounded by scattered sequoia trees that shift slowly, almost imperceptibly.

In the Valeanrae forest, the trees are alive, but like us, they suffer from the absence of sunlight.

Now they move only a few elven lengths per sun cycle, their movements too subtle for the naked eye to notice.

The sun has just risen, its weak light filtering through the treetops, making our jewelry and robes shimmer. Naeva spent a daytime dressing me this morning, all through Eredawn.

I barely recognize myself.

Heavy, pristine silver adorns my forehead and hairline, intricate and cold against my skin.

Blood-red stones dangle from delicate threads, forming ovals at my temples like drops of frozen fire.

Atop my head rests a crown of Kaspian steel, encrusted with thousands of Vasvinennian water crystals, a cherished relic my parents brought from Insisriel. Naeva wore it for her blessing as well.

The jewelry transforms me, making me look like someone else.

A little more like Naeva. For once, my icy hair is tamed, brushed straight from the crown down to my waist. Still, my lips feel too thin, my mouth too wide, but no one seems to notice.

Not with my eyes. One, blue as frost on a midwinter lake; the other, yellow, like the heart of a wildfire.

Panrielya places a gentle kiss on Lavaeia’s forehead before whispering the blessing, “Dúr múera osíatnin a, dúera embran amanie la a.” I respect you. You have great magic . Then she nudges her toward the crowd.

Lavaeia leaps into her family’s arms and is instantly swallowed up in warm embraces. The crowd erupts in cheers and applause. The ability to summon plants from her palms… why not? I could live with that.

Panrielya’s eyes briefly sweep over those of us still waiting before closing in thought. But even with her eyes shut, it feels as though she sees everything, like nothing escapes her.

“Havourel Aellasae.” Her voice rings out, clear and mysterious, cutting through the air.

The murmur of the crowd falls silent. Only four of us remain now, out of the original ten.

The other six have already received their powers and are finished.

I’ve been standing here for what feels like forever. Please, let it be my turn next.

Panrielya gently lifts Havourel’s chin, her pale-as-clouded-moonlight eyes meeting Havourel’s soft, dew-blue gaze.

Havourel is small and delicate, her pine-brown hair woven into a neat braid down her back.

She wears a flowing garment that hangs loosely over her arms, almost like a veil, most likely passed down from her older sister, Iminya, whose fuller figure once filled it better.

I’ve always liked Havourel more than Iminya, though it’s Iminya that my brother will soon marry.

It’s their home we’ve all been helping to build.

“Trust me.” Panrielya runs a finger along Havourel’s forehead, down the bridge of her nose, pausing at the tip. “You carry a gift that many desire. You’re the master of emotions.”

“What do you mean?” Havourel’s voice trembles as her wide, round eyes grow even larger.

“You can take, give, steal, or shatter emotions entirely. And I’m not referring to the fleeting thoughts we all experience.

” She shakes her head, waving her hand dismissively as though swatting away an invisible nuisance.

“No, I’m talking about genuine emotions.

The ones deeply rooted in our bodies. What we truly think and feel about each other.

Love, hate, anger, jealousy. You have the power to erase love between two people and plant it in others. Sow tiny seeds.”

Havourel gasps, her eyes widening further. Delicate snowflakes drift from the sky, settling soundlessly in her hair, blending seamlessly with the gleaming white ornaments woven into her braid.

I shift my stance, and cold, damp snow crunches beneath my bare soles. The crisp scent of frost and dawn lingers in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of pine, mist, and the fading night. A wolf pup howls in the distance, unaware that morning is coming.

Will it ever be my turn?

“You can mend the bond between mother and daughter, ensuring they no longer hold each other at arm’s length,” Panrielya continues.

“You can make it so two sisters, who’ve fought all their lives, would suddenly lay down their lives to protect each other.

Pure magic.” She clicks her tongue, her proudly arched nose wrinkling.

“Congratulations, Havourel. But be careful. Dúr múera osíatnin a, dúera embran amanie la a.”

Havourel stumbles away, her diamond-white gown dragging on the ground as the crowd erupts into applause. Louder than before. What Havourel has is a powerful gift, one most would give their last breath to possess.

But I don’t want it.

I need something I can fight with, something sharp enough to pierce Akares’s heart. Controlling his pathetic emotions won’t get me anywhere.

Panrielya’s closed eyes sweep over us.

Past me. Back again. Past me. Back again.

Then she stops.

“Iszaelda Vínnoel.”

I swallow hard. My mouth is dry, bitter-tasting. My heart hammers in my chest, and my breaths come in shallow bursts. The snow crunches beneath me as I shift back and forth, unable to stand still. Moving my weight, though there’s no need.

It’s time. Now, at last, I will know. I’ve spent my whole life yearning for this moment, preparing for it, waiting, planning, hoping, and wrestling with anxiety, doubt, and fear.

Nydona, goddess of fate, be merciful.

Once more, I sweep my gaze over the crowd.

The jewelry quivers, rattling around my eyes like the tail of a snake. When the blessing ends, I’ll have to head in the right direction and find my family.

What if they aren’t here?

Mother and Father were furious yesterday after the council’s visit, and I said things I regret now. But would they miss their own daughter’s Silver Day? Naeva wouldn’t abandon me. I’m sure of that.

Panrielya is in front of me now. Her dull, hollow eyes seem to peer straight into my soul. Deep into my pupils, down to my core. They’re clouded on the surface, yet piercing within.

I shift uneasily. I don’t want her to see everything I’ve done. I don’t want her to glimpse the dark thoughts that have haunted my mind over the years.

Her palm presses against my forehead, cold as bone against my skin. Her lips move in a soft chant, whispering in Elvish. “Amanie dúr iseya, amanie utoa vara, amanie ya se.” Magic, show yourself. Magic, come forth. Magic, break free. ”

The crowd is silent. Their eyes fix on me, a mix of dread and anticipation swirling in their gazes.

Snowflakes drift lazily between us, forming a thin veil as they settle on the snug sleeves of my gown.

I hear the wind scratching through the trees and the shaman’s whispered incantations.

My fists clench tight, nails biting into my palms, hard.

Waiting. Swallowing. Breathing. In. Out.

In. Out. Every nerve tingling with the awareness of her touch.

Her cold hand on my forehead. My gaze darts around without me moving my head.

My body remains stiff, frozen in place, yet the snow beneath my feet still complains with every shift. I can’t ruin this for Panrielya.

There!

Relief floods through me.

There they are, all of them. Naeva, Aeralon, Mother, and Father huddled together in the western corner of the crowd.

The forest swells behind them, a vast backdrop of towering trunks lined up in imposing rows. Some grow atop others, shrouded in draping vines and lianas. Snow-laden roots twist into the crowd, as tall as us and as thick as dwarves. No one dares sit on them. Everyone stands as tradition commands.

Naeva meets my gaze, her golden eyes alert and gentle. She smiles, and a wave of calm immediately washes over me as if an aura of stillness has settled around me. My heartbeat slows within a few sparks, and my breathing evens out.

No!

I realize what she’s doing.

I narrow my eyes at her but quickly look away. She knows I hate it when she soothes me against my will. Yet I can’t summon any anger. Her power is already coursing through me. If I can just avoid her gaze, it’ll fade in a few songs. But that’s easier said than done. She’s still watching me.

I force myself to ignore it.

I shift my gaze to my feet. Their tops are adorned with a delicate tangle of beads, glued in place, playfully glittering in the faint light of Aftendawn.

Each one carries its distinct pattern. Naeva had fun crafting them.

She decorated my right foot with the flame of Elda, goddess of warmth, because my right eye is yellow.

And my left foot bears the dripping icicle of Isza, goddess of cold, just as my left eye is blue—decorations in honor of the two goddesses I was named after.

Why’s this taking so long?

I glance up at Panrielya, studying her smooth, ageless face through my lashes. She’s nearly sixteen hundred sun cycles old, yet her skin remains unmarked by time. By now, most would’ve shown the first signs of aging.

She stands so close that her loose, quartz-gray robe brushes against my bare waist. The fabric is rough, held together by sable-brown leather straps.

Around her waist, a broad belt of bronze circles, each embedded with blue stones, glints faintly.

Draped over one shoulder, a sand-colored shawl trails behind her, its hem sweeping the ground.

The breeze lifts the shawl, brushing it against my ankles, a light tickle that travels up my legs.

She lets go of my damp forehead and says nothing.

The silence is thick. The crowd is still, and the animals are, too.

Even the forest holds its breath. I hear her raspy breathing and see the mist from her parted lips glowing in small, blazing puffs.

Her gaze pierces me so intensely it makes my stomach turn.

Say something!

I lift my head, tilting my chin to meet her pale, featureless eyes.

They’re unsteady, stretched wide, and unblinking.

Her eyelids are pulled so far back her lashes have vanished from sight.

She watches me, unmoving, with eyes that seem to have no end.

A lattice of wrinkles emerges on her forehead, mingling with beads of sweat.

Two snowflakes land softly among them, so delicate they do not disturb the droplets.

So she does have wrinkles at times.

“What is it?” I snap. My fingers twist together as I shift my weight from foot to foot, the ground protesting beneath me. Those of us who stand in the ceremony are not meant to speak, but I can’t hold back. She can’t just stand there, assuming my gift is mind-reading. “What’s my ability?”

She places a cold palm against my cheek, her thumb resting under my chin, tilting my head back and stretching my neck. She’s welcome to touch me if she can grant me a worthy ability. “I feel … nothing.”

“Excuse me?” I press my fingers together until they crack—Keelan’s habit, not mine. But I need to twist and pull at something, anything, to steady myself as the anxiety crashes over me, all at once.

What does she mean? What isn’t she feeling? What?—

“I feel nothing from you, sun elf. No impulses. No disturbances.”

“What do you mean?—”

“You have no magic.” She shrugs as if that’s all there is to it.