“Isobel is sixteen years old and the only child of Cormac Macaslan and Honora Jackson. Isobel is the top of her class at Ilvernath Prep and was president of the Young Spellcasters’ Honor Society for two years. She works part-time at her mother’s spellshop in—”
“JUST BECAUSE YOU WIN A PRIZE!”
Few of the faces around her were friendly. She frantically searched them for her father, who was smiling too wide. Isobel could practically see him pricing the value of high magick in his mind.
The rest of the mayor’s speech passed in a blur, and Isobel numbly climbed the ladder up the stone pillar. There were hundreds of names carved into it, representing hundreds of champions, hundreds of victims. Isobel knew the history, of course, but seeing it all in front of her, in the countless crossed-out names Ilvernath had buried and forgotten, made a shiver shoot up her spine.
“YOU’RE NOT ABSOLVED FOR THOSE WHO DIED!”
The knife made it difficult to write in her usual perfect cursive. When she finished, her name looked as blunt and sharp as the cut she’d stitched up herself on her upper arm. Twenty years from now, when another Macaslan champion climbed the ladder to carve their name, they would see hers, haphazard and imperfect. And most likely, crossed out.
When she descended the ladder, she looked down at her hand in surprise. Normally, she would’ve expected to feel a tingle of accumulated magick as the ring was conjured. Instead she’d felt nothing. One minute, her pinky had been empty. The next, it was not.
The quartz was as red as rose petals, the color of the high magick they were all fighting for. Though she knew it must’ve glowed, she couldn’t see it.
After her turn ended, Isobel shakily made her way to her family. Her father lowered his cigarette and kissed her forehead, definitely smudging her makeup.
“You were magnificent,” he said.
Her mother—who would usually never stand so close to her former family—smiled stiffly from Isobel’s other side. Isobel did her best to ignore them both and focus on the rest of the ceremony, otherwise she might cry.
“Alistair Lowe!” Mayor Anand announced.
The ruckus of the entire courtyard lowered to a hush, including the protestors. Ever since Alistair had nearly killed that spellmaker at the Lowe estate, he’d become the most notorious of the Slaughter Seven. Mayor Anand inched away from Alistair as he approached, like he was feral. There were no accomplishments, only a listing of family names.
“Marianne Lowe, Moira Lowe, Rowan Lowe, Marianne Lowe Jr.…”
Isobel frowned as the mayor finished the list. There was no mention of Alistair’s brother. She glanced over at the Lowe table and realized he was absent. That seemed odd, when every other member of the family was present. She remembered him distinctly from the Magpie.
“Innes Thorburn!” the mayor continued.
Seeming to snap out of their trance, the protestors resumed their chants.
“ARE THESE NOT YOUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS?”
Tuning them out, Isobel’s eyes flitted across the courtyard to the Thorburns, to Briony. Her old friend did not look like herself. Her usual cool confidence was replaced with a burning intensity as her sister carved her name into the ancient pillar. Isobel couldn’t tell what emotion plagued her—embarrassment, resentment, worry? But Isobel knew Briony, and she knew what a dress like that meant. It was scandalously low-cut, with beads catching and shimmering in the light. It was an outfit meant to be seen. It was the dress of a champion.
Isobel hated Briony, in that moment. Hated her for betraying her, hated her for sulking about not being given the chance to throw her life away.
“YOU HAVE RAISED THEM FOR THE SLAUGHTER!”
“I just…” Her mother’s voice was hoarse. “I just want you to know that I love you.” She wrapped her arms around Isobel and squeezed fiercely, and tears welled in Isobel’s eyes. For a moment, Isobel considered telling her mother everything, even if it was truly too late to change it now, but then her father slapped her shoulder.
“My money is on you and the Payne girl, in the end,” he said. “The Lowe kid doesn’t look like he has it in him, you know?”
Suddenly, it was too much to stand here, trapped in the throngs of the families, protestors, and claustrophobic, cobbled walls of Ilvernath itself. Isobel broke out of her parents’ grasps and pushed her way to the courtyard’s edge, to fresh air.
She hadn’t realized she was walking toward Reid MacTavish until she nearly collided with him. He spilled his cocktail on his too-tight black jeans.