Page 53 of Godbound
“I thought dragons stopped laying eggs before the Skyburn War,” I say. “The last wild one hatched decades before it began.”
He laughs under his breath. “That’s what they say. But if there were no eggs left, there’d be no White Death Covenant, right?”
I haven’t heard that in years. My mother used to tell me stories of them when I was little—masked riders cloaked in white, who stole away the cursed women before the Chastity Wardens could. Some said they were a cult of zealots who worshipped dragons. Others claimed they were the only heroes brave enough to save those women from the lash.
Back then, I never knew which version to believe. I only remember the way my mother’s voice would soften when she said their name. Like she hoped they were real.
I glance at the boy, curious. “You believe in them?”
“Of course I do,” he says. “I saw them years ago. They took a woman right after the lashing, right out from under the Butcher’s nose.”
The name jolts through me. The Butcher: the most notorious Chastity Warden in Viele’s history. He is the kind of man who lashed cursed women until the stones ran red.
His voice carries on. “I would’ve helped her myself, but I was too little. I just brought her water before they came.”
He says it so lightly, as if the memory hasn’t marked him, as if the horror of it all never touched him. I can’t tell whether to envy him orpity him for that kind of innocence.
The carriage comes to a halt, cutting off my thoughts. The Grand Plaza stretches before us in a wide sweep of pale stone, already crowded with people pressing in from every side. Guards patrol the perimeter, shouting orders and pushing back the crowd.
The sight sends a shiver through me, stirring the anxiety I’d almost managed to forget.
“What’s your name?” I ask quietly.
“Levi.”
“Levi,” I say, dropping a few coins into his hand, “you’re very brave. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
When I push the carriage door open, no one steps forward to help me, just as I expected. I may be a Champion, but I am also Crimson Tether cursed. No one in their right mind would dare touch me now. So I climb down on my own. The remainder of whatever lightness Levi’s chatter offered dissolves the moment my boots meet the stone.
“You’re not so scary, you know,” Levi calls after me with a grin. “I think Calista will be my goddess of choice for the Trial.”
I can’t help but smile back, though he’s already turned to tend his horse. “One worshiper down,” I murmur under my breath, “thousands to go.”
Rows of cityguards and Goldspears ring the vast open space, their armor flashing beneath the sun as they shove the crowd back with the butts of their spears. Beyond them, I catch glimpses of raised benches where nobles sit fanning themselves.
The air hums with cheers, laughter, and the metallic clank of armor against stone. I spot the Sibyls in dark robes gathered near the far edge of the plaza. Zyrel and his Godbeast are already in position.
All attention is now fixed on another arrival, Alaric and his dragon. Its shadow sweeps across the ground, and a collective gasp ripples through the masses. The crowd surges forward to take a better look, only to be forced back again.
It’s the perfect distraction.
With no Godbeast of my own to command attention, I move quietly, slipping from the edge of the onlookers into the sea of commoners. The thought of stepping through the entrance alone, of every gaze turning to the Champion without her Godbeast, rubs raw against whatever pride I have left.
Better to slip in unnoticed. Surely the guards will recognize me and let me through their line, closer to the section reserved for Champions.
Most don’t notice me, but those who do edge away, parting in uneasy silence. The closer I get to the center, the thicker the press of bodies becomes—shoulders jostling mine, the air heavy with heat, perfumes and dust. I can barely see past the rows of people now.
I push forward until the crowd grows too dense to pass.
To my left, a small ceremonial arch rises from the edge of the square, a half-circle of carved pillars. The crowd doesn’t gather there because the view must be poor, blocked by the columns themselves. That stretch of stone lies mostly deserted, tucked in shadow.
I slip out of the crush and circle toward the shaded side of the arch, grateful for the reprieve.
The arch swallows the sound, dulling the crowd to a low pulse. For a moment, it’s just the hush of stone and my own breath. That’s when I hear voices. Low, close, and threaded with tension.
I stop. One of them is familiar. Seraphina.
A ridiculous, almost childish impulse to hide grips me. I press myself against the stone, mortified by the thought of being caught sneaking around like this. As if that cat-eyed girl would immediately know why I’m not walking where the rest of them do.
