Mortal Fantasy

✴｜chapter one

Every year, the same thing.

A shudder traipses down my spine; I tuck the platter beneath my arm and move briskly into the backroom of the tavern, where it is quiet and dark, where I can be alone with my thoughts.

I run shaking fingers through my hair. I feel my chest heave.

So beautiful, Ithena...

I stiffen, the edge of the platter digging into my palm as I hold it tighter.

You will be chosen... of course you will... A woman fit for a prince.

The golden bloods have always had their way, always for the satisfaction of their lust and fervor—if it were satisfaction enough. Revolting would be a pitiful attempt; they'd sooner stamp down the beautiful with their brazen magics than save a life for the sake of an attractive face.

If we had had our way against the angels, our people wouldn't live in fear of being swept off to warm the beds of the angel nobility, trapped beneath their strength and power. Every year the Palanquin comes, the rank of rigid golden blood soldiers, to take away another young man, another young woman. Upon the dawn of their eighteenth year, they are suddenly eligible to be chosen by whichever angel's fancy they catch, oftentimes the aristocrats, but sometimes—though no one outside their harems has ever lived to speak of it—they are taken to royalty. To King Furos and Queen Auven, who shamelessly indulge themselves independent of each other every night, holding lavish banquets and entertainments for their darling concubines.

A soft footfall comes from behind the door, and I perk, sitting upright in the swarming darkness.

He steps through the doorway, head lowered, and I feel my heart clench.

"Meir. I know why you're here."

"You're hiding." Despite the plain clothes on his back and the dirt-caked soles of his boots, Meir is strikingly handsome, bright blue eyes piercing as sapphires and endearingly unkempt hair the color of snow. He leaves the door open and takes a seat beside me, gently prying the platter from my hands, but I can feel the tension in his movements. He leans closer, so close I can feel his breath teasing my skin, and whispers, "Why do you think they'll come for you?"

"Because they will." My response is bitter. I avert my gaze, suddenly wishing I still had the platter to grip between my fingers. "Why won't they? I haven't been hiding all my life, I can hide a few moments..."

I feel the soft pad of a fingertip on my cheek. Gradually Meir eases my face toward his; he stares at me. His fingers brush my ear, touch my hair. "If they come for you, I'll fight them." He grimaces—even then his features are achingly beautiful. "They won't take you, Ithena. I... if they take you, I'll..."

"You won't resist," I whisper, moving his fingers away from my face. Through the wall, I hear the laughter and dull chatter of the people of the tavern. How well they play this facade; as if their kindred aren't taken year by year, their children torn away from them forever. I know the pain of watching dear friends dragged away, screaming and begging and pleading. Even Meir cannot pretend it does not exist. "You'll let me go, and you'll... take care of Barthamieu." The old bartender is practically a father—I don't want to envision his face, contorting in tears once they come. "At least here, we can share our grief. Don't leave him alone."

"I can't leave you alone," Meir mumbles fiercely, his eyes wandering my face with an unbearable sadness. "You can't be certain... Ithena, how could you know?"

I hesitate. "I... received a letter..."

A startling thump sounds from the other side of the tavern, and the entire gathering quiets. The dead silence can only mean one thing.

Meir searches my eyes frantically, grasps my face. "No. It's... you didn't..."

I swallow. My chest hurts with every ache to promise him I can stay, with every ache to touch him, but I can't. How can I bring myself to, when I am to be that of another—?

Meir crushes his mouth to mine, hot and desperate and heartbroken. I want to gasp, but his lips stifle mine, and my heartbeat heaves into a thundering disarray. He groans softly and kisses me again, breaking away for a halting gasp only to return, to kiss me harder.

I push him away abruptly, flushed in the dark like a rose in bloom. I can't—no, I can't. How can I give myself to him when the Palanquin is literally at the door?

"Ithena," he whispers, his voice full of anguish.

Something hot and wet bites at my eyes. I rise and move past him, pretending I don't love him, pretending everything will fall into place when I leave. He doesn't reach for me—he knows as well as I do that there is no escape.

When I make it out the door, into the large, fire-lit room, my gaze catches upon the rank of soldiers at the door, one of whom roves my face with his eyes, something dark sparking in his eyes. The breath drawn against the air by the dozens of people in the tavern is baited; I stand motionless, the blood pounding in my head, the tips of my fingers coursing with my pulse.

"Ithena Avonstef." The soldier's every word is like a blow to my heart—dreadful in their finality, practically a death sentence. "You have been chosen as a concubine to golden blooded royalty..."

My heart stammers painfully over a beat. Royalty?

But my initial shock is nothing compared to impact of what the soldier pronounces next.

"... His Highness Stephen Luxev, the Crown Prince of Atellyn."