THE SUDDEN BUSINESS OF THE SLUMS MADE SENSE—the Slums were abuzz with excitement and fear upon hearing the news. That must have been why the man Celvene had spoken to at the circus hadn’t heard of Virion’s demise; news traveled slower to the poorer districts of Aizasea, unless one worked in one of the wealthier districts. And coming from a peasant, others would consider the news of Virion’s death gossip and not fact. That much was obvious by the fact that they got the fine details wrong—murdered in his own bed? Perhaps his own throne.
Upon mulling it over, though, Celvene wasn’t surprised. But she was disappointed. King Virion lay dead, and his practice of hoarding resources for the wealthy somehow continued. News of his replacement ceremony was new, though—even more powerful than the citizens’ fear was their greed. They wanted a chance at Virion’s crown, and the ceremony was their way to do so. Though with the inaccuracies in the headlines screamed around her, she wondered if that gruff voice was telling the truth to begin with.
The shouts of vendors drowned out the rustle of newspapers. Now that Celvene absorbed what they were selling, almost every merchant on the street was holding a print, whether from an official source or from their own hastily sketched hand. Unnerved murmurs surrounded Celvene, somehow louder than the screams of the vendors.
“An assassin! Who could have possibly broken into the castle?”
“Have you seen the swords our army wields? It’s no surprise.”
“Who do you think did it? Were they really from Noriya?”
“What if they’re lying? What if he stepped down but doesn’t have the courage to face the public?”
Sticking close to the shadow-shrouded shopfronts of the streets, Celvene kept her grip on her daggers tight and her eyes sharp, ignoring the rumors rippling by. There was a chilly bite to the air; a promise of the upcoming winter season.
A man near Celvene flexed his arm, smirking. “Do you think I have any chance at that sword?”
From—likely superfluously exaggerated or simply untrue—rumors, the ceremony would enact a tradition the king had put in place if he were to die. But Virion had made it seem like he could never die, reassuring the kingdom through print and word of mouth how he’d never leave the kingdom defenseless against Noriya. That made the rumors feel even more untrustworthy.
She’d heard countless methods of how Virion would pick a successor, dead or not: the council could pick the next king, or one of them could step up and take the crown. A battle to the death would pick the most worthy. The people would vote on who they felt was most fit for leading a kingdom. And the most unbelievable? A sword that judged the blood of both the worthy and unworthy.
She’d never believed any of it, but she supposed she needed to temper her expectations. She hadn’t believed that a god could die, either.
Celvene imagined his employees had already been to the wealthier districts of Aizasea in search of a new king, to no avail, before they resorted to searching the Slums. They’d look in every nook and cranny for a replacement, preferably in a district that wasn’t the Slums, and Celvene knew they wouldn’t rest until they succeeded. Without a king—and by extension, without any effective method to enforce laws besides his panicking council—crime would run rampant. Or, rather, more rampant than it already was.
Would she still be required to go to Virion’s castle with news of the ceremony? He was dead. There was no king to perform for. Most of the castle staff would spread across Aizasea with their focus on finding the king’s replacement. As a result, there was no reason for her to be at the castle; none of the people she would perform for would even be there—if Korvin allowed her to perform in the first place. But if she didn’t show up, Korvin would throw a fit.
She sighed and continued on her path. She’d have to catch up on sleep another time.
Ahead, a swarm of men surrounded a wooden stage on the verge of collapse—and right in the middle of her only route to the more tasteful parts of the kingdom, Virion’s castle included. Unless she wanted to be stuck in the Slums, she’d need to pass the ceremony. She knew why they’d chosen the heart of the Slums: to attract all the unsavory and unruly men who lurked in every shadowed corner—perfect candidates for the ruin that awaited the city’s future, and the easiest method to reach as many people as possible.
The crashing of waves from the nearby pier and squawks of silver gulls did little to mute the cries of men eager to see the crowning of a new king. They were restless, elbowing and bumping one another as they fought to get the best view of the rickety stage in front of them. Rotted wood built the foundation, and as the announcer paced back and forth, the boards sagged beneath his feet. The crudely scratched motto of the city written into a building behind the stage was obscured: Tranora marent, fulhemus.
Beyond the sea, we shine.
Hefty footsteps, leather against cobblestone, was jarring enough to snap Celvene out of her focus on the ceremony stage. She’d let her guard down. Her daggers sprung to life in her hands and she swiveled on her heel.
She was met with a dingy cotton shirt, dark streaks of dirt smeared upwards and a tear from the collar to the chest. Stepping back, she angled her gaze upwards, narrowing her eyes. For a moment, she feared it would be the man she’d cheated out of his earnings at the circus, back to enact revenge on the shoddy dealer. But the man was nothing short of a brute, and certainly not the customer from Painted Sky, with a thinning head of gray hair and enough wrinkles to last multiple lifetimes. His cracked lips curved upwards in a malicious smirk.
“Lookin’ to watch the ceremony, little lady?” he said, his voice a deep rumble.
Celvene’s eyes fell to the blunt blade resting in the man’s meaty hands, before snapping back up to his face. If she knew anything about the men of the Slums, no matter who they were, it was that you needed to be smart around them. One truthful comment and they’d slit your throat without hesitation.
“No,” she said. She’d avoid conversation, keep a polite tone, and hopefully walk out in one piece.
“What’s a dainty little thing like you doing ‘round here?” the man said. He shifted his weight, tugging his leather pants higher. Though he looked aged, his moves were youthful. Full of energy. “You should know there ain’t a woman becoming the next king. Why’re you hanging around? You want to watch the men?”
Celvene almost rolled her eyes, but stopped herself. If the meathead gave her a moment to talk…
“I’m not watching the ceremony. I’m passing through,” she said, taking another step backwards. Part of her itched to cast a spell, but she knew she wasn’t quick enough. The man would shove her to the ground, and she’d be dead before she could begin to think. If she believed in the bustling crowd in front of her, she’d inch her way towards it. But she didn’t trust anyone in the crowd to save her—while there were many good people in Aizasea, anyone who hung around the Slums willingly was not among them.
And she didn’t know if they’d not only ignore her, but join in.
Behind her were wilted flower boxes, browned petals drooping towards the ground. As Celvene inched her way backwards, the wind from her movements caused a dead petal to flutter to the cobblestones. It crunched under her heel, but she didn’t dare to take her eyes off the man.
“What’re you hanging ‘round these parts for, then? You heading to Velvet Row? Golden Spire? Maybe even the Gilded Court? Little thing like you must hang around some elitist snobs.” The man’s squinted green eyes blazed with a new fire as his gaze traveled up and down Celvene’s figure, and a ravenous hunger sparkled in the depths. They dropped to Celvene’s daggers for a moment before trailing back up to her face, and he took a step forward, grin widening. “You alone?”
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“No. My brother is just ahead, waiting for me to join him for the ceremony.” An easy lie; Celvene had no siblings. But the man didn’t believe her.
Celvene took in his hunched stature and the unmistakable lust warping his lips into a smile. For every step the man took forward, Celvene took one backward. It didn’t seem to deter him, however. If anything, it intrigued him more, and Celvene knew formalities were out the window. Slum dwellers didn’t use their words when they found something they wanted—they let their hands do the talking for them.
In the distance, the sea around the pier was calm, a contrast to the raging storm inside Celvene’s heart as she contemplated what to do. The bitter salt in the air stuck to her tanned skin with a harsh kiss, whipping the two braids in front of her hair and howling a song of death. Celvene recognized the lyrics anywhere: danger. She was in for a fight, as the sea willed it.
And, as if jumping to prove her thoughts correct, two brawny hands flashed out of the corner of her eye. Ducking, she didn’t hesitate to raise her weapons and take a well-aimed shot. She wasn’t a fighter—far from it, being a mage—but she wasn’t going to willingly let herself fall to a man with empty eyes and an even emptier head.
However, despite the man’s hulking figure, he was fast. Not only did his hand connect with her head, but he leaned to the side just as Celvene's dagger shot out, her weapon barely grazing the edge of his mud-stained pants.
A blade of pain sliced through Celvene's head from the blow, but she didn't allow herself to fall. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on the man as he stumbled forward, his hands raised to strike once more. Between the rippling muscles below a neck as thick as a light pole and her desire to keep her daggers on hand, she didn’t stand much of a chance.
When she stepped back to give herself a moment to breathe, the man stuck out one of his long legs behind Celvene’s feet. She stumbled, but before she could fall, his hands wrapped around her neck, and she made sure to keep her grip on one of her daggers steady. She allowed the other to clatter to the ground, and upon hearing the metal strike stone, the man’s grin grew deadlier. A pang of satisfaction struck Celvene’s heart—good. He was going to let his guard down, believing he’d already won the fight, and he hadn’t seen her other dagger.
Yet, despite her confidence, her heart fluttered like a terrified bird trapped in a cage. It fluttered with fear. She’d made it out of situations like this before, and she’d adapted, but with every gamble she took, she toed the line closer to death. She knew that. And she’d still let herself get distracted.
“You talk a big game for such a little lady, don’tcha?” the man said, his yellowed teeth flashing. Celvene noticed he had a single golden tooth—likely fake, altered by transformation magic. She almost smiled. But he pushed her further against the wall and she gritted her teeth instead. “So what are you? A mage? That why you’re defenseless? ‘Cause I wouldn’t call those little butter knives of yours real weapons.”
Celvene tilted her head, batting her eyelashes. The man’s hold on her neck was strong and unrelenting, and her skin throbbed beneath his touch. The words were hard to force out, but she managed to say, “I’m just a poor, defenseless little lady, sir. I don’t know any magic. Why else would I carry these knives? So put me down, please.”
“Why should I?”
“Well, wouldn’t you like to take me out for dinner? I’m sorry for my brash reaction, but you know the men around here. They get a bit too excited when they see a woman. It was a precaution, you see. You seem like a fine man.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, but his pressure loosened slightly. He let one of his hands lower, but his other hand was more than large enough to wrap around Celvene’s neck by itself. “You fibbing?”
Celvene wiggled herself a tad, and the man didn’t notice. If she could lower herself enough to be able to reach his leg… “Of course not. You’re a handsome gentleman, right? I’m sure all the ladies swoon over you. With that golden tooth and all…”
Now, confidence rolled off the man in waves. With his free hand, he readjusted his tattered shirt, a smirk crawling onto his lips. “Well, my ma always did say I was a good-looking chap. Jade Tavern sound good? We can head there right now. Ditch this silly ceremony.”
“Well, I do have one problem,” Celvene said, fluttering her eyelashes. The man’s head cocked to the side. “I’d suggest you put me down, or you won’t have any fingers to eat that dinner with.”
His lips parted, but before he had time to speak or move, Celvene sunk her dagger into the man’s knee. She twisted the blade before yanking it out with a tug, and the man stumbled back with a pained howl. Before Celvene could blink, he was stumbling forward with his fists ready to swing, but between the crimson blossoming in his pants and the pained, glazed expression warping his sunken face, Celvene didn’t have to make much of an effort to avoid his flurry of punches.
“A big man talks such a big game,” Celvene said, glare glued to the man as he collapsed to one knee. She’d made sure her dagger went deep, but for the man to fall after one good hit? “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” he mewled, a thin sheet of sweat coating his dark skin. “I’m from Vosalon.”
“Wanted to try your luck? See if you could make it big in an influential city, maybe scare a few women into dates while you’re at it?” Celvene asked conversationally. “Well, despite its namesake, Vosalon isn’t the place to learn how to fight.” I would know. “You stumble around here swinging your arms like that and you’ll be the laughing stock of Aizasea. If I don’t report you to the guards, of course. But you’re too good for prison, aren’t you?”
The man was silent for a moment before he nodded. A meek tilt of the head. He cradled his knee, blood covering his hands.
“You’re not. You’re going to want to work on your charm before you chase after women and lay your hands on them.” With one swift kick to his inner thigh, the man was sent screaming onto his rear. Celvene knew she didn’t have the physical strength to break a bone, but grim pleasure blossomed in her heart. She’d sent a fresh wave of pain sailing through the man’s body, and hopefully a nasty bruise to accompany it. If she was feeling daring, she would’ve sliced his other leg, but she was unsure of whether the man would’ve been able to grab her, especially when he’d be on high alert thanks to her previous attack. And besides, her message was clear either way. “Try to remember that the next time you see anyone that spares you a passing glance.”
Before the man could respond, Celvene had taken off. She rummaged through her bag for the one healing potion she carried on her. It was weak, and she knew it would taste sour, but it was better than nothing. Popping off the cork, she downed the liquid, and although it tasted like tart, unripe berries, her neck’s pain dulled.
She wiped her daggers off with a piece of cloth, tucking them back into their sheathe. Whether they were from Aizasea or another kingdom, all the men in the Slums followed the same pattern: testing their luck with women in the wrong way. She’d vowed never to let a Slum dweller take advantage of her again. While none of them had been as direct as the bleeding man lying on the ground had been, she’d learned and adapted. The same couldn’t be said for the guards; she’d gone to them before with complaints of handsy or suspicious men, and they’d brushed her off, even if the men had touched her. She imagined today would be no different.
Celvene glanced ahead. Were there guards? There was a crowd of people; the ceremony must have begun after she’d seen it earlier. But Celvene didn’t care to watch. Perhaps she would have if she hadn’t stumbled into the Slums at the worst time, but her luck had never quite smiled down on her.
After she tried to peer over the sea of heads for a better view, to no avail, she veered away from the crowd, thinking her curiosity was satiated. But upon the fervent cries and jostling of the men quieting down, she spared them one more glance, and the men calmed enough for Celvene to see the scene. At the head, two men stood on the stage. Celvene recognized one as the announcer she’d spotted earlier. His brown skin shone in the moon’s dim light as he walked up to the front. Beside him, the torches lining the streets flickered, providing the light the moon could not.
With one hand, the announcer lifted the sword, and its golden accents and runes caught the light of the moon. The announcer’s lips moved, but from far away, Celvene would never hear what he said. She didn’t need to, either. The sword’s power spoke for itself as the inscriptions shifted from yellow to glowing red.
A burst of energy surged out from the blade, washing over the crowd. An odd tension gripped at Celvene’s chest, and when she tried to move, it was like her legs were glued to the ground. She glanced up, and sprouting from her heart, a trail of misty red hovered in the air. It looked like every person in the crowd had the same affliction—a thick veil of crimson covered the air, and the threads gathered in a trail leading to the sword. Celvene silently cursed herself for not escaping when she had the chance, but she hadn’t expected the sword to be able to do that. And now she was at the mercy of the crowd—if they could even move.
But she was just as helpless as they were. And if the men caught just a glimpse of her, she imagined no amount of guards would keep her safe.