"Let the Houses remember: to claim a Marked is to touch what once belonged to the Celestials. Power borrowed from the divine is never freely given — nor easily contained."
— High Scholar D, Celestial Conclave Annals
Three victors. Six Marked Tributes.
Last Equinox, there had been four victors and more than twenty Tributes to share between them. There had been abundance then—luxury enough for the winners to barter their spoils, exchanging the Marked like gilded ornaments once the veils were lifted and their faces revealed. Some even gifted a Tribute or two to allied courts, a diplomatic gesture that strengthened ties between kingdoms.
Not this year.
With only six to be claimed, no House would part with even one. The air in the hall was thick with frustration, the low murmurs of discontent rising like smoke.
Calen stood among the victors, his expression carved into indifference though his jaw was tight. He should have been first. In the final hour of the Great Hunt, Alixon and his men had felled the white stag. That single kill—rare and almost mythical—had shifted the tide. The stag's pelt, shimmering with a faint celestial sheen, was deemed of greater worth than the hundreds of beasts Calen's own hunting party had brought down.
And so, Elarion had won the crown of the Hunt, Calen second, Alixon third
It burned.
He had drowned that anger last night in ale and reckless pleasure, his temper spilling into the taverns of the City. Isarin—third in line to the Sylareth throne and a frequent partner in crime—had joined him, and together they'd sought distraction. It was Isarin who found the girl by the bonfire but Calen had felt drawn to her even before he set eyes on her.
Now, standing before the altar with his rivals, Calen looked at the display of objects laid before them—six items placed on a golden tray:
A pot of dark oil.
A tortoise-shelled comb.
A goblet of horn.
An ivory seal.
A red-feathered quill.
A milky bead.
Each represented one of the Marked.
A clever show of impartiality by the Conclave, he thought. A way to avoid claims of bias after whispers that their processes had been tainted by politics.
Still, Calen would have preferred to simply pick the girls himself. He wanted to see them, to lift their veils, look them in the eye before claiming the ones that would be forever bound to him. Still, this added a certain edge of anticipation.
He glanced to his left. Elarion, House of Ardenne's heir, was studying the tray with an intensity. Of course. The ever-righteous golden prince. Rumours said Elarion had found love during a previous Equinox—one of the Tributes he was gifted and had claimed. He had supposedly chosen her heart before her power, a perfect story befitting of a perfect prince. Now betrothed to the same woman, he stood there like virtue incarnate, draped in moral discomfort.
Calen's lip curled. Men like Elarion were dangerous precisely because they believed themselves to be so righteous.
Alixon, on the other hand, was everything Calen expected—calculating, the kind of man who saw value in flesh and ability alike. A ruler of a small but cunning coastal kingdom, Alixon had ambition.
The officiant's voice carried through the vaulted hall.
"Each item represents a Tribute."
The crowd hushed.
Calen allowed his gaze to slide from the tray to the line of veiled women standing before them. Six of them, all clothed in shades of pale silk. Their faces hidden, their figures suggested more than revealed. The fabric clung just enough to the curves beneath.
His attention lingered on each one in turn.
The first stood tall, shoulders proud, her poise striking even beneath the veil. Long legs, he mused, picturing how they might look bared under candlelight.
The second was fair, though unremarkable. Nothing in her stance or silhouette stirred him.
The third—petite, delicate, a sweetness in her posture.
The fourth moved slightly, the motion betraying an athletic grace. Strong. Controlled. Useful in more ways than one.
The fifth's figure was pure seduction. The kind of body sculpted for indulgence.
And the last—his eyes lingered there. She seemed almost ordinary at first glance, but there was something about her stillness, a quiet tension that drew him in. Her hands were clasped tightly, her head slightly bowed, and even through the veil he thought he could sense her eyes beneath—steady, aware, defiant.
Calen's grin deepened.
He imagined taking the last two at the same time, pushing the limits of their bodies while the binding did its work. The anonymity of the veils made the idea even sweeter. He had pent up heat from last night, in fact he hadn't warmed his bed with another for such a long time.
Elarion, standing a few paces away, could not have been further removed in thought.
To him, this entire spectacle was barbaric. The binding ritual had always been justified as a necessity—to awaken and acquire the power of the Marked, to ensure it remained with the bonded and not spread uncontrolled. It was also a transaction driven by political desires. Women as vessels, their celestial gifts traded between leaders like assets.
It disgusted him and he would never have participated in this had it not been an order.
Yet duty was duty. His King had ordered his participation, and his kingdom's survival depended on it. Ardenne was on the brink—its shield was under siege this very moment. A single Marked Tribute and their Manna could make all the difference in their efforts to stabilise their weakened shield.
Still, he couldn't shake the memory of Bellatrice's face when he'd told her he must go. She had been a Tribute once too— originally his brother's claim but gifted and bound to him. She was his first true love, the only thing that had made this cursed ritual bearable.
He had promised her he would return swiftly and that on his part this was just duty and nothing else. Now, facing the six women lined before him, he wondered if any of them wanted this or whether they were resigned to their fates just as he was.
Alixon's thoughts were more pragmatic.
The victory at the Hunt had been a triumph for his small coastal kingdom of Tharoz. Though third place, it had elevated his standing among the greater Houses. When he had scanned the Tributes lined up in front of them he couldn't help but admire the large perky breasts of the fifth one. But he tore his gaze away and analysed his way through the objects he would have to choose from.
He scanned the items again and again, assessing not with lust but with calculation. A Tribute bearing the right kind of Celestial affinity would enhance their foothold amongst the other Kingdoms. A blessing of the winds or seas would be most appropriate.
When the time came, he already knew which he would choose. His eyes rested on the pot of dark oil. For him this oil was unmistakable. An oil of this colour could only be from an ancient whale—the Celestial Guardian of all things in the sea, and the sea was everything to his people.
The officiant's voice rang out again.
"Let the choosing begin."