Page 6 of Starside

The Culling hasn’t even started. To be among the Fifty, I might have to kill her.

Still, I find myself taking her hand. Shaking it. Saying in a voice eroded by relief and exhaustion, “I’m Aris. From Silverside.”

Her smile falters. Her green eyes widen. Shit. This exact reaction is why I haven’t told anyone where I’m from for years. Not that many have cared enough to ask.

I’m the blacksmith’s apprentice. Unworthy of notice. I don’t really know why I share the truth of my origins with her now.

“I didn’t know anyone survived from there,” she finally says.

If I forgot for a moment why I’m here today, this reminder slams into my very marrow. A blinding rage flares in my chest, a fire that burns brighter than the one crackling just feet away. “Most didn’t.”

Ninth screech.

Just two minutes left. Volunteers are starting to get desperate. Sloppy. Launching right toward the king’s guards, only to be slain and thrown into the fire.

Tenth scream.

Just one minute left.

Bellows, cries, and shouts of celebration reach a fever pitch. The guards grow in their brutality, reveling in the bloodshed, not stopping, even when the person is clearly incapacitated. Only two more make it through, and both are injured.

I can almost feel the seconds counting down, tension rising like the smothering heat of the flames. Last chance. Someone makes a jump for it, but they’re pulled back by the hair, and slaughtered. No one else tries. And now there isn’t any time left. Sun beating against the crown of my head, I turn and watch the silver hawk open its mouth one final time.

But the cry dies in its throat.

And, as if their screams have been ripped away by a brutal wind, the crowd suddenly goes silent.

“No,” Kira whispers beside me.

No is right.

No. Fucking. Way.

The very people who tried to kill me now scuttle back in fear. They don’t just lower their weapons. The crowd fully parts down the center, making a path straight to the platform.

And a towering knight steps forward. A black hood and silver mask hide his face.

Not that it matters. We all know who he is, and what he’s done.

His silver armor is unmarred, because no one has ever gotten close to killing him. The only skin visible is his hands, white as bone. Thin, inky markings bleed across his knuckles and curl down each of his fingers.

He looks like a demon.

An enormous sword is tucked behind his shoulder. As he walks, his steps assured and almost casual, the slightest strip of silver is visible between the hilt and scabbard.

Sparkling, otherworldly silver, like melted-down stars. Starside steel. An entire sword of it. It makes my own blade look like a toy. His is the only one currently claimed this side of the gates. Ancient, powerful swords choose their wielder. This one chose a man who parts an entire bloodthirsty crowd with just his reputation.

Harlan Raker, head of the king’s guard. The most famed knight on Stormside.

A man infamous for lacking mercy. I should know. I begged him for it, and he remained as cold as he is now as he studies the challengers. As he studies me. I can’t see his face, but I can practically feel his notice. His disdain. By the set of his wide shoulders, he seems unimpressed. Bored.

Just feet away from the platform, Raker suddenly stops. Even the flames seem to still. He looks around, muscles taut for the first time, and I can almost imagine his eyes glimmering beneath that hood, just like my blade did, as if daring someone to come forward. As if hungry for bloodshed.

I almost wish for it, just to see that magnificent sword unsheathed.

But no one moves a muscle. All the guards bow their heads, staggering back. He steps onto the platform, unchallenged.

The hawk finally completes its final cry.