Briony had only ever thought of it as a fairy tale. But even the grandest stories eventually found their ending.
And so, in the shadow of her family’s Landmark, unchosen, unwanted, Briony Thorburn vowed that this ending would somehow be caused by her.
ISOBEL MACASLAN
To craft a death curse, blood must be given before blood can be spilled.
A Tradition of Tragedy
Ten hours before the start of the tournament, Isobel sipped her Earl Grey tea—milk, no sugar—while staring at the front page of the Ilvernath Eclipse. She had a lump in her throat that the tea couldn’t wash down.
The complete Slaughter Seven. Six of them soon to be dead. Maybe, hopefully, at Isobel’s own hand. The article included a picture of each of them, along with a list of their close family members and their accomplishments.
Like a celebration.
Like an obituary.
“They gave more space to the Payne girl,” her father complained from across the table. He pushed aside the heap of accumulated dirty plates to make room for his own copy of the newspaper. “And this Blair kid—look at that polo shirt. This turning into a beauty pageant or something? What do they all have that you don’t?”
“Maybe the reporters got bored of me,” Isobel said numbly.
He shook his head and took a long drag of his cigarette. “All those stories were supposed to get you sponsorships. You got that head start, and then I thought, you know what? The spellmakers—they’re logical people. When they see how talented you are, they’ll line up at our door. But they turned their noses up at us.”
He crumpled his newspaper into a ball and tossed it on the floor.
“It’s probably your mother’s fault. All the spellmakers are chummy with one another. If they’re not sponsoring you, well, makes me think, is all.”
Isobel didn’t want to talk about her mother. They hadn’t spoken since their last argument, and now that the Blood Veil would fall tonight, Isobel worried that she might never have a chance to again.
She shouldn’t think like that, she knew. But it was hard. With each day that passed, the tournament drawing ever closer, Isobel grew more tightly wound. She’d spent months detesting the way the reporters had hounded her. Now that they had more champions to fixate on, she felt strangely discarded—a feeling she knew all too well. None of her emotions made sense.
“Mum wouldn’t sabotage me,” Isobel said sharply.
“You said sabotage, not me.” Her dad leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the table. “Your Thorburn friend grew up well.”
“That picture isn’t Briony. That’s her sister, Innes.” Her father had never paid much attention to Isobel’s friends, but she thought he’d at least recognize Briony.
“Well, that makes it easier, doesn’t it?” he asked, sounding pleased.
Isobel wasn’t so sure it did. No, even after Briony had betrayed her, she’d never relished the thought of facing her in the tournament. Killing her little sister, who’d always been sweet to Isobel, hardly seemed any better. And the more she stared at the newspaper, the more each of those faces felt like someone else’s sister or brother, daughter or son.
Suddenly, something inside her cracked. It wasn’t loud and thunderous, despite all these months of fame and terror and stress. Instead, it was quiet and small, betraying what she really was—fragile.
“I don’t want to do this, Dad,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears.
“What?” He was picking food out of his teeth. He hadn’t heard her.
“I don’t want to do this,” she said louder. “I don’t want to be champion.”
He snuffed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “It’s a little late to back out now.”
“There’s still time. The champions don’t carve their names into the Pillar until tonight. You could call Uncle Bart and—”
“Tell him that my daughter changed her mind? That she turned her back on all of us?” His voice rose, carrying into every narrow corner of the cluttered home, and Isobel shrank into her seat. “I knew your mother was planning something. She hasn’t called in days.”
“I don’t want to die!” Isobel’s voice trembled, but when she took deep breaths to calm herself, she felt like she was suffocating on all the cigarette smoke. “I don’t want to kill anyone, either. I’ve never wanted to. I never wanted—”
“You’ve never wanted to be a part of this family,” he accused.