I gratefully take the cup and rummage around in my pocket for some coins. But when I hand them to her, she just waves them away. “Oh no, your coins are no good here today, dearie. My Farrow told me how you bandaged him up and helped him home last week after his fall. I can’t thank you enough. Who knows if he’d have been able to get home without you. I was worried sick as it was.”
I sip my delicious drink as Larry comes over to join us, BonBon filling us in on the latest town gossip. With half an ear on her chatter, I watch while Janus and Kahlia slowly make their way to the front of the Collection line as the last of the straggling villagers. A King’s Guard summons Janus forward, gesturing for Kahlia to stay where she is. Janus reluctantly drops her hand before he steps forward toward the Collector.
Draped in a long, dark coat with silver embroidery along the edges, the high collar frames the Collector’s cold, stern face in shadow. Black leather gloves cover his hands, giving him an air of cold, mechanical precision as he handles a glass bauble the size of an orange and places it in Janus’s palm. There’s a short pause, and Janus readjusts his position. Soon, a thin mist begins to swirl inside the ball, faint at first, then slowly darkens and thickens, churning as if it’s a contained thunderstorm. The mist glows with a muted light that feels almost alive, pulsing with the rhythm of Janus’s heartbeat. Janus’s Strength is Earth, so it’s no wonder that his Offering swirls light brown and green in the bauble. From my vantage point, I can see the light sheen on Janus’s forehead as his eyes squeeze shut, the effort put into his Offering clear.
It’s hard to watch; it seems as if he’s syphoning away a part of himself.
Or maybe it just feels that way to me because if I had any magic at all, I wouldn’t want to give even a whisper of it away. But I understand too well the desperation that drives the Offerings—when the need is to put food on the table, sometimes one has no choice. And the magic does benefit the realm as a whole, if the King’s decrees are to be believed.
After a few minutes, the churning mist settles, and the Collector lifts the bauble from Janus’s hand with a practised motion, weighing it in his palm as if assessing the value of Janus’s very being. The Collector’s eyes are cold, calculating as he says something to the nearby King’s Guard, who reaches into a velvet bag and pulls out some coins, dropping them into Janus’s hand. Whether it’s because I know his expressions so well, or because it’s so pronounced, it’s impossible to miss the way Janus’s jaw tightens. Anger rolls off him in waves as Janus says something inaudible from so far away, but the meaning is clear as he points to the meagre pile of coins in his hand.
The Collector spares Janus a quick look, and then gestures with a single wave toward a lone tall figure standing behind the line of Guards.
I glance over, surprised that I hadn’t seen him there before.
And now I wonder how that’s even possible.
A shiver runs through me, though I can’t tear my eyes away from him. The figure looms, imposing, the dark blue-almost-black armour he wears seeming to swallow all light around him. His face boasts a sharp, chiselled profile that’s both striking and unnerving. Everything about his expression is cold, hard, almost inhuman, as if carved from stone. Metal cuffs don the forearms folded across his chest, his eyes dark and unreadable, watching the scene in front of him with a detached intensity that sends an unprecedented shiver down my spine.
“Bonnie,” I say, cutting her off, “who is that man standing behind the row of King’s Guards? Is he the captain?” I ask, knowing if anyone knew who he was, it would be Bonnie.
“Oh, him? I don’t know. He just started appearing on Collection days recently. Talks even less than the other Guards, apparently. Scary-looking fellow, isn’t he? We all call him Sir Scary amongst ourselves. I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”
I turn back to him. There’s something indescribably commanding in the way he holds himself, a silent authority that demands respect, even as it fuels the quiet fear curling in my stomach. He’s terrifying, yes, but there’s also something about him that draws me in. In the stillness, I find myself both fearing and revering him, a strange mix of dread and awe that I can’t quite shake.
Janus apparently is having the same response, as he glances at the figure and then, hesitantly, bows his head. Without another word, he grips his coins in one hand and reaches for Kahlia with the other.
“I’ll be back in a minute, BonBon!” I say, cutting off the stall owner mid-sentence, and make my way over to the town square. “Well, that’s a happy look,” I say with a raise of my eyebrow as I meet Janus and Kahlia at the square’s edge.
Anger still ripples off Janus’s face; he opens his mouth to say something but then glances down at Kahlia, and then back up to me.
Getting the message, I lean down to the little girl and say, “Hey, Kahlia, why don’t you go over to Bonnie’s stall? I bet she has something delicious for you. Tell her I’ll be back in a second.”
She instantly drops her brother’s hand and, without sparing us a look, takes off toward the stall.
“Thanks,” Janus says, his voice tight and gruff. “They lowered the compensation for the Offering again. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have given as much as I did.” He presses the coins into my hand and runs a hand through his hair, sighing. I don’t even need to look to know that it’s less than usual. Much, much less. “I should’ve kept most of my magic for work this week. It’s going to be hard enough with the snowstorm this week, let alone having to recover from the Offering.”
Dabbing at the sweat on his forehead, he huffs as he yanks his jacket off, handing it to me while he tugs on his wrinkled and worn shirt and buttons the cuffs at his wrists, every movement infused with anger.
I pull on the jacket even though I’m far from cold, and I tuck the coins into the pocket. Trying to keep the worry from my voice, I say, with a light punch on his shoulder, “Hey, don’t worry. It’s a good thing I know how to stretch out a potato, then. You haven’t seen what these hands can do yet,” I say, wiggling my fingers at him.
Just as the words leave my lips, a sharp crack echoes through the square, followed by a whoosh that seems to suckthe very air from around us. I turn towards the sound just in time to see flames burst from Bonnie’s stall where Kahlia had been standing moments before. Among the flame and smoke, I can just make out the cauldron lying on its side, hot cider pouring out onto the road, fire tearing up the wooden posts of the stall with terrifying speed, the heat so intense it warps the air around it.
For a heartbeat, the world freezes, then chaos erupts.
The orange flames leap from stall to stall, devouring the thatched, ancient market stall roofs in seconds. Screams saturate the air as villagers scatter in every direction, their panic feeding the frenzy of the fire. Panicked, stall owners desperately throw water, blankets—anything to stop the blaze—but it’s useless.
The fire is too fast, too hungry.
“Kahlia!” Janus’s voice somehow cuts through the noise, raw with panic. Without a second thought, he bolts towards the blaze, shoving past the frenzied crowd. My heart lurches in my chest as I see Kahlia trapped in the stall, behind a line of fire, the flames curling around her like a snake ready to strike. Her scream is high-pitched, piercing, and filled with terror, and it slices through me like a knife, her tiny hand coming up to rub her smoke-seared eyes.
Slipping on a sheet of ice, Janus falls in the middle of the road, knees sliding, tearing. But he’s back on his feet in seconds; the desperation in his voice as he yells out his sister’s name feels ragged even in my throat. There’s a deafening crash, and part of the blazing wall of the stall falls, and suddenly, I can’t see Kahlia anymore.
Janus reaches the stall and bounds directly into the flames without a care for himself. Following a few steps behind him, I see him scooping her up in his arms and holding her close, his body shielding her from the worst of the flames. For a brief, hopefulmoment, I think they’ll be okay. But then I see a remaining piece of roof above them, the thatch already engulfed in flames, groaning as it begins to give way.
“No…” The word slips from my mouth, barely audible, as the scene unfolds in slow motion. I’m frozen, rooted to the spot by a fear so intense it’s paralysing me. The roof starts to collapse, burning debris poised to crush them all. Helplessness crashes over me, as a desperate, burning need to do something screeches through my veins. The reality of what is about to happen presses down on me, suffocating, as I watch the fire consume everything in its path. It’s too much. I’m too small, too… powerless to change any of it.
My heart pounds, the world narrowing to just this moment.
