Page 51 of Starchaser
“I do,” I say, even if the words taste like ash in my mouth.
Iron scrapes iron as the king unsheathes his sword.
My teeth clench. Could this have been a trap all along? Does the king plan to send a message to the rebel factions and murder me in front of the entire court?
Fine, I think, even as I brace myself.Make me your martyr.
The blade comes to rest on my right shoulder, a heavy, lingering weight.
“Today, Aster Oberon, you join your brothers and sisters in arms, a Bloodknight chosen and appointed by the Crown to serve your kingdom until death.” The king removes the blade, sheathing his sword. “Now, rise, Bloodknight, and receive your king’s blessing.”
I stand, my legs shaking as a servant presents the king with a chalice of blood. He dips his thumb into the cup, his eyes glowing gold as he presses the bloody digit to my forehead.
“Before you join your brothers and sisters in arms,” the king says, the glow of his eyes subsiding as his lips curl into a wicked smile, “I believe I owe you a head, and what better day to present such a gift than on the second day of the Holy Winter’s Festival.”
My stomach sours, and I swallow bile as the doors to the throne room open once more. I glance over my shoulder to see Flynn andGabriel drag a woman down the aisle. Even though a cloth sack covers her face, and chains bind her hands and feet, she struggles like a tempest given flesh, her screams sending the nobility scattering. They back against the walls as if she were about to break loose and slaughter them all.
The woman lets out a violent screech, sending a chill down my spine. Gabriel and Flynn carry her emaciated form between them as if she weighed as much as an anchor, dragging her down the aisle at a snail’s pace.
Titus must decide that he lacks the patience to wait, stepping down from the dais and starting toward them with purposeful strides. He rips the sack from the woman’s head with a snarl before grabbing a fistful of her sparse, auburn hair and hauling her toward the dais with little effort.
He deposits her at my feet like nothing more than a bag of potatoes, placing his foot on her back to impede her writhing form.
I wish I felt some comfort in the way he stands at my side, facing his father with a look of apathy cold enough to turn fire to ice, but this isn’t Titus. This is a monster starved for blood. A cruel, vile beast set free from his cage.
The Reaper grunts, digging his shoe so deep into the woman’s spine, a loud crack echoes throughout the throne room. Inwardly, I wince, but I manage to maintain an indifferent composure that I hope exudes confidence.
I have taken a life to protect my family before. This will be no different.
A Bloodknight steps up to present me with a sword, the dark, Elysian Iron shimmering with hues of purple, green, and blue.
“In keeping with the celebration of my son and his bride-to-be, I had this blade commissioned especially for you, Dame Oberon,” the king says, gesturing at the sword. He runs his hand over the metal. “But it was my future daughter-in-law, Princess Leonora Boucher, who arranged for a new shipment of Elysian Iron to arrive just in time for the work to be completed.”
I glance at Princess Leo, but her expression is neutral—almost dreamlike—as if she were wholly unaware that the king mentioned her name. But when I catch her eye, she gives a slight smile, and it could be a twitch, but it looks as if she winks at me.
“Let this blade represent a new era. Our alliance with the kingdom of Hellion will bring new shipments ofMananto their shores, and in return, their Council of Merchants has agreed to increase shipments of Elysian Iron to the Eerie, enabling us to arm our soldiers bravely fighting against the Underling hordes in the League of Seven.”
He pauses as the nobility break into deafening applause, and I realize just how little I truly know of the politics between the kingdoms of the Known World.
“And now,” the king continues, “today you shall witness a reformed pirate—the first human to serve as a Bloodknight—christen this blade, having vowed her allegiance to the Crown.”
The smattering of applause is notably weaker. The nobility—the Bloodknights—have been forced to accept my presence here, but that doesn’t mean they have to overturn a lifetime of hatred for me and my kind.
I take the sword, weigh it in my grasp. I consider the space between myself and the king—consider the damage I could do before this Bloodknight could even draw his weapon. I could drivethis blade through Calix Anteres’s throat in the blink of an eye, and some sinister, hungry thing inside of me seems to come awake at the thought.Do it, it whispers.Kill him.
“Thank you, Sir Cooper,” the king says to the Bloodknight who gave me the sword, and it’s only then that I realize Flynn was the one to present me with the weapon.
“My king.” Flynn dips his head respectfully, crouching at Titus’s feet, where the woman has gone limp. I send a silent prayer to the Stars that she might already be dead, but she lets out a weak moan as Titus peels his shoe back, allowing Flynn to grab the woman by her shoulders and lift her to her knees.
I see her face for the first time, and my stomach turns to water. Somewhere beneath the swollen, bloodied wreckage, I recognize Winona Congreve—Eliza’s traveling companion from the train to Ink Haven.
The young maid was quiet—timid—that night in Will’s private dining compartment. Since meeting Eliza, I suspected Flynn and Gabriel’s sister of siding with the Order, though I can’t be sure to what extent. But I could never imagine Winona to be a rebel soldier.
Still, where then she appeared to be a shy human girl, the battered prisoner before me looks as if her spine were made of steel, her lip trembling with barely contained rage. And yet, it’s as if she’s resigned herself to her fate as Titus and Flynn step away and I take my stance at her left side, my palms slick as I adjust my grip on the hilt of the sword.
I take a deep, steadying breath, but it does nothing to calm my thunderous heartbeat, loud enough that any bloodletter in this throne room—the king and queen included—can surely hear it.An ache splits my chest when I think about what Winona could have done to have ended up here today—who might mourn for her—but I force myself to push the thought away. To focus on my mission: to protect my family, no matter the cost.
I lift the blade, hoping I’m strong enough to make it clean. I know my blow will strike true, but I practice my swing just once, aligning the sharp edge with the base of her skull if only to stall. I draw the moment out, memorizing the face of the true martyr—the woman whose life I trade for my own.
