Hadassah did not move.

  She did not speak.

  She did not cry.

  She merely stood and watched with wide, open eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you use it?’

  At the centre of the crowd, a child’s body hung.

  She was limp, her body was small, and she was barefooted.

  The wooden tiara in Hadassah’s hand hung at her side; her arms were too heavy to move.

  The little girl’s hand was holding a pink bead; her hand clutched onto it desperately, unwilling to let go.

  She could have used it; she should have used it.

  But that child was unwilling to let something so precious to her go.

  “No one else is bidding?” Valentino asked with a smile of mirth on his face.

  Hadassah felt something inside her crumble; her eyes stung so much she was tempted to close her eyes, but she refused; she forced her eyes to remain open, and subconsciously she took a step forward, and another. Slowly her steps accelerated until she was running and, from running, sprinting.

  She wanted more than anything to reach for that girl and to hold her. But just as she made her way to the edge of the crowd she felt her arm sharply tug back and she fell backwards.

  She did not even care to look at who had dragged her back; she got on her knees and tried to stand up, but she was dragged down again. Her body pinned down. Her face was still looking up at the body of the girl and she tried again to release herself, but Rahn’s hands kept her down on the floor.

  “Why, why are you holding me? Let me go,” her voice held restraint which was quickly forgotten as she eventually lost control. “Let me go. Let me go!”

  He covered her mouth quickly as his eyes darted out of the crowd.

  Hadassah thrashed, her teeth biting down on his hands. She tried to free herself but couldn’t, and he forced her to sit there. Her eyes that stung fiercely immediately gave way to the floodgates she held back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His words made her stop fighting.

  And so she screamed.

  Her voice was muffled by his hands; she screamed until her voice was hoarse and her ears rung. Until her nose ran and her head ached. She wanted to run up to that little girl and hug her; she wanted to save her; she wanted so desperately for her to smile and call her big sister.

  She wanted to put the tiara on her head.

  But she was gone.

  “If there are no more bids, the body will go to Verena!” Valentino’s voice echoed through the square, his eyes sweeping over the crowd, as if waiting for the reaction he knew was coming. Verena’s sharp and triumphant gaze scanned the people too, searching for one face. Hadassah. She wanted Hadassah to crawl out from the shadows, to beg, to bid for the body. The look of victory was written clearly in her eyes—a predator enjoying the final moment before the kill.

  But Rahn kept Hadassah hidden, held tightly in his arms. He knew her better than anyone—he knew exactly what she was feeling. And he knew more than anyone else what she needed at that moment.

  Hadassah’s body trembled as sobs wracked her, her face buried in Rahn’s chest, hidden from the view of the crowd. Her mind was in shambles. She wanted to see Kaladin; she wanted him to appear and rescue her from this nightmare. Deep down, a voice whispered that if Kaladin had been here, maybe things would have been different.

  …Would it?

  Kaladin had never shown any care for half-castes. When Vivian’s arm was shattered, he’d said nothing. The idea of him standing by, indifferent to the girl’s fate, twisted a deeper knife into her heart. She wanted to believe he would have saved the little girl, but she couldn’t.

  No one would have saved her.

  Because she was human.

  Hadassah let out a long, agonising wail, muffled against Rahn’s chest. She couldn’t face it. She couldn’t look at the body on display; she couldn’t bear to acknowledge what her decisions had wrought. She had caused this.

  Her actions had led here.

  And she was too much of a coward to confront it.

  Even now.

  “Going once! Going twice!” Valentino’s shouted, ready to close the sale.

  “10,000 shells.”

  A voice interrupted the proceedings, causing a collective gasp from the crowd. Heads turned, eyes searching for the source of the disruption. Emerging from within the crowd, a tall man with long black hair appeared, fanning himself nonchalantly. His robe hung loosely from his shoulders, revealing a glimpse of the power he carried so easily.

  Verena’s eyes widened the moment she saw him. She dropped to her knees instantly, bowing low, and Valentino followed suit without hesitation. The crowd, seeing their actions, mirrored them, bowing before the man.

  He hid his lips behind the fan, but his deep purple eyes gleamed with raw power as he surveyed the scene.

  “I bid 10,000 shells. Does anyone wish to bid against me?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Verena clenched her teeth, fighting the bile rising in her throat. “No, your highness,” she muttered, keeping her head low, trying to mask the fury threatening to overwhelm her.

  The man smiled lazily. “Then get that body down, take good care of it, and return it to the Vortigern tree.”

  “Yes, your highness,” Verena said, her voice dripping with forced obedience. Her face remained hidden behind her hair, but her expression was ugly—twisted with barely contained rage.

  The man spared her no further thought, merely glancing at her as if she were nothing more than a speck of dust beneath his notice. With a flick of his robe, he walked away.

  Hadassah felt her heart drop back in place; she recognised him; he was the man that was by Vivian’s side that night at the auction house. This was Vivian’s gift to her, a gift she would forever be grateful for. Something she could not do, Vivian had to do on her behalf, and in the same vein, what Vivian could not accomplish, Hadassah would do on her behalf.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  Zarek paced outside her door; his hands clenched and unclenched as he struggled to find the right words. For a solid hour, he had stood there, debating whether to knock or walk away.

  Finally, gathering all the courage he could, he raised his fist to knock, but just before he could, the door swung open. Rahn stepped out silently, his large wings brushing the sides of the door frame as he passed Zarek without a glance, leaving the door ajar. He spread his wings and swooped up before heading towards the slums.

  Zarek looked in; there were only a few candles lit. He swallowed hard, exhaling deeply as he entered the room.

  The air inside was heavy, the faint smell of myrtle, it was cold in her room, and the windows were left wide open. She was sitting on the window ledge; the moonlight kissed her skin as she hugged her legs to her chest and rested her head on her knees. She was barefoot, her white robes loose and delicate, a toy tiara in hand, her hair cascading down her back; he had never seen her with her hair loose before; he couldn’t help but feel she looked beautiful.

  “Hadassah…” Zarek began, his voice catching in his throat.

  She didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the partial moon in the sky.

  He shuffled awkwardly, words failing him. He started talking, saying things he thought might comfort her, but his words were aimless. They felt detached, almost mechanical. “You know… sometimes life is… it just happens. We can’t control what happens to other people. Maybe it was fate.”

  No response.

  Zarek shifted uncomfortably, feeling her cold silence press against him. He wanted to speak again to fill the void between them with something meaningful, but stopped himself. Instead, he remained standing, waiting for her to say something—anything.

  Eventually, she did.

  “What did she do to deserve that?” Hadassah’s voice sounded rough and raw, as though she had screamed until her throat was left cracked and bleeding, until there was nothing left of her to give.

  Zarek hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I… No, she was just a child.”

  “Yes, she was just a child,” Hadassah echoed his words, her voice distant, as if she were drifting somewhere far away.

  They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity.

  “I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” she finally murmured.

  “Strong enough for what?”

  “To face this world,” she said. “Part of me just wants it all to die. This world should die. I don’t understand why it exists. Why make humans? Why allow them to be so weak and hated? Why make them this way?”

  “Humans are hated because they make weapons, they make Harbingers.”

  “They have no choice!” Hadassah snapped, annoyed at his words.

  “Do you think humans really have no choice but to make Harbingers?” Zarek asked tentatively.

  “Do you think a human could survive without one? If Esther had a Harbinger, she would’ve been saved.”

  Zarek fell silent, the words he wanted to say catching in his throat. He could speak of his own experiences, his own pain, but it felt too crude, too wrong. Instead, he chose to offer what he thought was comfort.

  “There’s no point getting upset over the child.”

  Hadassah’s head snapped up, her gaze locking onto his. Her red, swollen eyes made him feel uncomfortable. He averted his eyes, guilt prickling at him.

  “She was merely a half-caste,” Zarek continued, his tone coldly pragmatic. “Living on borrowed time. It’s better she died now—better she didn’t have to suffer any longer.”

  He didn’t notice the way her gaze dimmed, the light extinguishing in her eyes.

  “I see,” she finally said, her voice hollow. Yes, better that the child died now; better to spare her from the cruelty of this world. And maybe… maybe it would’ve been better if she had died with her father in Valdemar. Better than living here, with no clear purpose, drowning in this suffocating rage.

  “Get out,” she suddenly said, her voice a low, simmering command.

  Zarek blinked, momentarily stunned.

  “I said, get out!”

  He hesitated, unsure of what had gone wrong, why everything had shifted so suddenly. He took a step towards her, desperation seeping into his voice. “What is it?” he asked, his tone unsure. “What is it about me that you dislike? Just tell me, and I’ll change.”

  “Zarek, you—”

  “Don’t hold my words to such high regard,” he interrupted, his voice almost pleading. “I know I can be insensitive sometimes, but nothing I said was meant to hurt you. I don’t understand why you’re angry.”

  She studied him for a long moment, and in that silence, a chilling realisation settled over her. “I really hate stupid men,” she said, her voice icy. She hated him—hated his inability to see the truth, hated his reliance on brute strength over intelligence, hated that he could stand there and speak so callously about the death of a half-caste child. She hated everything about him in that moment.

  “Thank you for training me,” she said, her words cold and final. “But you will never train me again.”

  Zarek’s heart sank, her rejection hitting him harder than any blow he had ever taken in battle. He opened his mouth to speak but found no words. With a stiff nod, he turned and left the room, his chest aching.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, the room fell into silence once more. Hadassah sat on the window ledge, her hands trembling with rage as she stared out at the moon.

  Time passed, and then, out of the shadows, a figure emerged passing by her on the window ledge and coming into her room.

  The soft creak of footsteps on the floor made Hadassah’s grip tighten around the small wooden tiara she held in her hand.

  “You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?” the voice asked.

  Hadassah didn’t turn around; her eyes were fixed on the moon. Her knuckles blanched as she clutched the toy tighter.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice steely. She couldn’t afford to look back. She had to face the consequences of her decisions.

  “I have.”

  The figure searched its robe and brought out two hairpins. They were the exact same jade pin, plain and unassuming. It was the two hairpins Vivian had in her possession.

  “You are a Kesmes, are you not? I want you to modify these artefacts.”

  Hadassah took the two pins and asked, “how long do I have?”

  “Three months, until the trial.”

  Three months, that was enough.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  In an old, dilapidated house in the slums, darkness cloaked everything. Night had fallen, yet no candles had been lit. The silence within was heavy, unmoving, as if no one lived there any more.

  Inside, a man sat slumped over, his hands clutching a small pair of blue shoes. He struggled to get out of bed, his chest tight with a crushing ache. Each breath was a painful gasp, his hands trembling as they knocked over a stack of papers on the worn wooden table beside him. Falling to the floor, his snake tail coiled weakly beneath him, his entire body shaking as tears fell freely onto the cold wood.

  They had taken the only thing he had to live for. So what was the point in living?

  He gasped, clawing for air, his hand fumbling towards the counter in search of a knife, anything. He was ready to end it all.

  Just then, his front door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the dim room.

  A woman with long, coily brown hair, deep brown skin, and soft brown rabbit ears stood in the doorway.

  “You—who are you? Have you come to laugh at my misery? Get out!” He snarled, his voice shaking. He had no patience left for mockery or disdain; he hated this world more deeply than words could convey.

  The woman didn’t respond. Instead, she walked forward and, without a word, knelt before him. To his astonishment, she lowered herself into a kowtow, her forehead pressing against the dirty floorboards. She repeated this three times, each bow slower and deeper than the last. He watched, his eyes wide, tears spilling anew. His heart, already in tatters, shattered further as he realised he wasn’t the only one mourning the loss of his daughter.

  Finally, she looked up, her own tears staining the floor. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  In the dim light, she extended a hand towards him, a small, pearl-like object resting in her open palm.

  “Eat this,” she said gently. “Do not give your life up yet.”

  He struggled to hold back his sobs. “Who…who are you?”

  She smiled kindly at him. “My name, is Esther.”