Page 54 of Godbound
“And your posture, Seraphina, is appalling. Were you raised in a stable?” a female’s cool voice says.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Seraphina replies in a submissive tone I never thought her capable of.
The sound of it alone draws me forward before I can stop myself. I edge closer and peer around the column. Standing with Seraphina, poised like statues, are Duke Renholm and Duchess Ana. Her parents. They’re half-hidden behind the arch’s pillars, which explains why Ihadn’t seen them sooner.
When I shift for a clearer view, the rest of the scene comes into focus.
A hulking green dragon sits a few paces in front of them, facing their direction. It’s settled neatly on its haunches, twisted wings tucked close to its sides, its head tilting from side to side with an almost endearing patience.
The Duchess’s lips are pinched in disapproval, her off white gown pooling around her like a puddle of milk curdling in the heat. Renholm stands beside her, his angular face unreadable, his cold blue eyes scanning Seraphina the way one might evaluate an ill-trained servant rather than a daughter.
And Seraphina… she looks dazzling, almost unnaturally so. Her high ponytail gleams like spun silver, her green eyes sharp with a too-perfect intensity. The soft fabric of her fitted tunic clings to her in a way that highlights the sculpted grace of her athletic frame.
Even standing still, she radiates strength and confidence. She looks like a Champion.
For a second, the thought cuts through me that if anyone deserves to win, it’s her. She has the look of it, the beauty, the presence, the effortless poise.
“And your eyebrows,” the Duke says. “The red is starting to show. Are you trying to make a spectacle of yourself at the Spectra Judicium? When was the last time you dyed them?”
“Two days ago,” she replies, evenly. “It must have smudged when I washed my face. I’ll be more careful.”
Red eyebrows? They look dark brown to me.
But if they truly are red—the color her natural hair would have been, had it not been turned white by the curse—then Seraphina carries an unfortunate resemblance to the Crimson Tether itself. And that, judging by her father’s scathing glare, is a reminder her family refuses to tolerate.
“Then stop washing,” Renholm snaps. “Wipe yourself as we did when you were a child. No one must ever see the filthy color you were born with.”
I blink—once in shock, twice in awe, and finally, in quiet disgust.
Seraphina doesn’t reply. Her parents’ barbs must be constant, ones she seems to have long since learned to weather in silence.
It’s hard to watch. It feels too familiar.
Their words remind me much of my father, of the way he’s spoken to me so many times. Though talking like that had been the least of his cruelties. My fingers drift unconsciously to the scar splitting my left eyebrow like they always do when I think of him, a phantom ache tingling beneath my touch.
Then, the dragon snaps its head backward, as if it heard my movement. Two slitted yellow eyes catch mine through the shadowed space between the pillars, unblinking and far too aware. Instinct finally takes over and I stumble back from the column, putting distance between us, unwilling to wait and find out what happens if the dragon decides to expose me.
The noise of the crowd swallows me whole again as I weave my way toward the guards. They exchange low mutters about me entering from the wrong side, but none step forward to stop me. One of the Goldspears gives me a long, assessing look before finally shifting aside.
I let out a quiet, shaky breath and slip past him into the line of Champions, keeping my head low as I make for the far end, the spot furthest from Zyrel.
The nobles of Calcatra watch from their tiered seats, faces lit with anticipation. But many expressions shift the moment they see me, twisting into quiet hate.
I recognize it. Many lost loved ones when Decay first flared through me.
Daphne, the daughter of a prominent house, stares daggers in particular. Her esteemed fiancé—an older, wealthy duke—was among the victims of my magic, leaving her without the prosperous marriage that would have elevated her family’s name. She, along with a few others, whisper behind feathery fans, their eyes locked on me.
I look away.
Each noble in the audience is drunk on the illusion that they matter more tonight than they ever have. And perhaps they do. I see thecalculation in their eyes. For once, their opinions carry real weight. Their prayers are the fuel that powers each Champion, the thread that tethers us to divine magic.
Once the head of a great house casts their loyalty by choosing a god or goddess, the lesser houses will follow like moths, eager to show unity, eager not to be left behind. That’s the way it works. Influence trickles down, and with it, belief.
So impressing these people tonight could rewrite everything for all of us.
Without their prayers, I’ll walk into the next challenge exposed, my magic thinned to a whisper compared to the other Champions. Strangely, the thought sits easy, like some part of me has been waiting to accept it. And maybe that’s for the best.
If what happened in the meadow was only a sliver of what could live inside me… would I even dare unleash more of it? Even if it meant winning?
