Eyes Like The Ocean | A Culled Crown Novella

Chapter 5

The streets of Gazda.

Erydia.

She had not killed him.

This is what she told herself as she ran towards the art district. Every footfall, every beat of her heart, was an echo of that reminder. She had not done it.

Still, the poison had wanted to.

What had once been a small, starved thing—was now a snarling, ravenous beast. It had been allowed to see the light and it had reveled in it. Being contained again, shunned and stopped, anger it. Made it pulse, restless and waiting in her chest. Viera knew the next time she loosened those mental bindings it would be ready.

It would overtake her.

Rain coated her skin, plastering her black hair to her face and soaking through her clothes. Leighton's jacket was still clutched to her chest, but she did not dare stop long enough to put it on. If she stopped moving, even for an instant, she worried she would not be able to start again.

The world was spinning in circles. Her legs shook and muscles strained as she pushed herself past the dark gated estates, past the locked market stalls and onto the main city street towards the art district.

Up ahead, situated high on hill above the city, lay the palace. It glowed like a beacon, like the fires of funeral pyre. All her life she'd in the shadow of that place—afraid of what she would lose if she were forced to go there.

She would not go there.

Could not go there.

Leighton was waiting for her.

The streets were alive with nighttime activity.

People strolled between pubs and dance halls. Women stood on street corners, calling out to passersby, their already thin dresses rendered translucent by the falling rain. Their dark eyes sparkled against the dim streetlights, ablaze with desire.

Music flowed and ebbed, each sound blending into the next. Couples walked arm and arm down the street. People laughed and cheered and lived—lived entirely normal lives unaffected by the goddess or by the Culling.

Viera did not stop running.

She slipped through the crowd, darting down alleyways and propelling herself past buildings as familiar and unchanging as the mark on her flesh.

She knew this city, had mapped it, memorized it, with Leighton.

There, to her left, underneath the beauty parlor sign, was where Leighton had first found her—she had been flustered and late for her shift at the bakery. He had spent the entire school day trying to talk to her. He had sat with her at lunch that day and had acknowledged her during every course break—even when the other kids whispered. Even though she hadn't talked to him, had barely looked at him. Still, he'd come looking for her. Had asked about the bruise on her cheek. The same bruise that her teachers and classmates had simply ignored.

Then, across the street, just next to that cigar stand, was where they would always meet before school so they could walk together. It was halfway between her estate and his apartment. In the warmer months, they would sometimes stop and buy glazed tarts from a nearby street vendor—they had tried nearly every flavor there was. She liked the strawberry and he liked the peach.

And to her right, down on the banks of the Tasviere—that was where they'd had their first kiss. That had been all sweating palms and heavy breathing, anxious expectation and yet—vivid surprise. She had cried afterwards because it had been so sweet and unanticipated and she didn't think she deserved him.