The Mayaware's reign must end.
In a world of demonic beings with a hunger for human flesh and thirst for blood, Hesi Renen knows it well. When her siblings are taken to the harvesting farms, she must do everything she can to get them out, even if it...
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Sweat dripped from Hesi's hairline to her chin, her fingers twitching and turning rigid. Her heartbeat thrummed in her temples as she hunkered down on the square frame. She grabbed the twine and laced the thick thread around the frame's legs before weaving it between the spaces in the canvas. It resembled tying up a tent flap against a branch. Should be a breeze.
The trial happened inside a wider room in the royal palace—the farthest most brides reached since the trading square—and for whatever reason, the corridor leading to the prince's quarters sported an enormous stone at the lip. How would the prince go out? And why would the Mayaware take a huge risk in bringing the brides here, when one planned to infiltrate and commit murder?
It betrayed one thing—the Mayaware did not know.
Darpeh, even Kharta could fly by unnoticed, and he was the one with a more...acidic method.
At the thought of the steward, she flicked her gaze from her project to where he sat with the other bald Mayaware whom she assumed to be important. Festophis, the head of the Steel Fortress, settled cross-legged on a velvet cushion, a displeased frown plastered on his face as though he didn't want to be here. Beside him sat a female Mayaware adorned from bald head to toe with gold and colorful gemstones. Must be Nephdaphis, the only female general in the army.
The others seated beside them could only be Heruphis, Khetaphis, and Iserphis. Each was powerful and wealthy by their own right. Each had the patience of a fly and would not hesitate to kill her off if she showed any sign of wavering. But like how the Mayaware saw humans, she didn't bother telling the generals apart from the ones she already met.
Kharta refused to meet her eyes, focusing instead towards Uzare who was already halfway through her pottery project. Hesi figured as much. They shouldn't declare to everyone whatever connection they shared. Why was she disappointed though?
She returned to her canvas which was propped in the middle of the frame like a man about to be flayed. She rummaged around the wicker basket of dyed spools and picked the only shade she used for practice. The thread unwound with ease. The needle joined her hand not long after. Slowly, with her tongue sticking out between her lips, she pushed the thread into the needle's eye as Barteset taught her. Then, she started embroidering.
Her shoulders jumped every time the needle resurfaced from the other side of the canvas and plunged into her thumb. Rehema's voice rang in her head—Stop putting your thumb in places you expect the needle to go through. Hesi stuck a lip out. How could she know when to pull the needle through?
Two weeks wasn't enough for her to master more than one shape. Barteset gave up teaching her more than the stitches she needed to make the flower Uzare showed her. That meant Hesi was on her own with the grass. And the sky. And the river.
Occasionally, she glanced up and studied the progress of the other brides. Seated behind the low tables surrounding the room, the women hunkered on their own crafts. There was Uzare who dipped horsehair into a jar of dye and ran it across the side of a drying vase. Mensa was back on her feet, hammering away at a block of wood which took the shape of a blob with a misshapen head.
