Fallen City E-Book

Adrienne Young

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 554

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In this Sunday Times bestseller, dive into the Greco-Roman inspired fantasy where a lush glittering world, a lottery built on lies, and a forbidden romance come together as 18-year-old Maris attempts to escape a city under siege. In the great walled city of Isara, a rebellion one hundred years in the making ignites. But when a legionnaire falls for a Magistrate's daughter, their love will threaten the fate of the city and the will of the gods. Luca Matius must carry on the family name, maintaining its presence in the Forum, but finds himself in the middle of a pivotal catastrophe. Raised amidst the inner workings of the Citadel, Maris faces a lifetime of service to a corrupt city. However, upon meeting Luca, their lives are fated to become entangled. Once the city is thrown into chaos, Luca and Maris are on opposite sides of a holy war and learn they are at the center of a story the gods themselves are writing. And even if they can find their way back to each other, there may be nothing left for them to salvage.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1Now: Luca

Chapter 2Now: Maris

Chapter 3Before: Maris

Chapter 4Now: Luca

Chapter 5Before: Luca

Chapter 6Now: Maris

Chapter 7Now: Luca

Chapter 8Before: Luca

Chapter 9Now: Maris

Chapter 10Now: Luca

Chapter 11Before: Maris

Chapter 12Now: Maris

Chapter 13Now: Maris

Chapter 14Before: Luca

Chapter 15Now: Maris

Chapter 16Now: Luca

Chapter 17Before: Maris

Chapter 18Now: Maris

Chapter 19Now: Luca

Chapter 20Before: Maris

Chapter 21Now: Maris

Chapter 22Before: Maris

Chapter 23Now: Maris

Chapter 24Now: Luca

Chapter 25Before: Luca

Chapter 26Now: Maris

Chapter 27Now: Maris

Chapter 28Before: Luca

Chapter 29Now: Luca

Chapter 30Now: Maris

Chapter 31Before: Maris

Chapter 32Now: Luca

Chapter 33Now: Maris

Chapter 34Before: Luca

Chapter 35Now: Luca

Chapter 36Before: Maris

Chapter 37Now: Luca

Chapter 38Now: Maris

Chapter 39Before: Luca

Chapter 40Now: Luca

Chapter 41Now: Maris

Chapter 42Before: Luca

Chapter 43Now: Luca

Chapter 44Now: Luca

Chapter 45Now: Maris

Chapter 46Now: Luca

Chapter 47Now: Maris

Chapter 48Epilogue: Maris

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“Written in Adrienne Young’s signature lush, atmospheric prose, Fallen City is a romantic fantasy like no other: gritty, immersive, and utterly spellbinding. The second-chance, slow-burn romance had me flying through the pages and kicking my feet. Reader, meet your new obsession.”

ISABEL IBAÑEZ, #1 New York Times bestselling author of What the River Knows

“A sweeping start to a captivating new series. Young proves she’s a master at what she does, weaving gripping politics, curious magic, and a sweeping romance into an intricate new world. Readers are sure to obsess over her most romantic series yet.”

ADALYN GRACE, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Belladonna series

FALLENCITY

Also by Adrienne Youngand available from Titan Books:

SKY IN THE DEEPTHE GIRL THE SEA GAVE BACK

FABLE

NAMESAKE

THE LAST LEGACY

SAINT

TIDES & DRIFT

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Fallen City

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781803365374

Broken Binding edition ISBN: 9781835416846

Fairyloot edition ISBN: 9781835417225

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365398

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: November 2025

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Adrienne Young 2025.

Adrienne Young asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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For Ethan,my greatest teacher

GODS AND FEASTS

THE FIRST FEAST

Eris, goddess of life

THE SECOND FEAST

Phaedo, god of peace

THE THIRD FEAST

Thekla, goddess of craft

FOURTH FEAST

Calisto, goddess of fertility

THE FIFTH FEAST

Remillion, god of wealth and abundance

THE SIXTH FEAST

Hermaus, god of health

THE SEVENTH FEAST

Musaeus, god of hearth and home

THE EIGHTH FEAST

Kali, goddess of death

THE NINTH FEAST

Alkmini, goddess of wisdom and enlightenment

THE TENTH FEAST

Eleni, goddess of love

THE ELEVENTH FEAST

Toranus, god of bloodlines

THE TWELFTH FEAST

Aster, goddess of war

PROLOGUE

Some stories begin at the end. This one does—of that, I’m sure.

The difficult part is figuring out exactly when that beginning was. Some would say it began with the Philosopher. Others would say it was the first season of withering crops. It could even be said that it began with the first sword drawn in the Old War.

If I am to be the one to tell you this story, I can begin only where my own ending started—with the shadow of wings on the stone floor of the temple. With the smell of ink and parchment, and the first seeds of a secret.

My name is Casperia. Maris Casperia.

Perhaps we should begin there.

CHAPTER 1

NOW: LUCA

There were no gods left to pray to.

The short sword glimmered as I tilted its edge against the sharpening stone, the metal warm against my calloused fingers. A line of recruits watched in a kind of daze, their focus trained on my grip as the high-pitched vibration drowned out the sounds of early morning in the camp.

Sharpening your blade correctly is a means of survival, I’d told them. As necessary as cleaning your armor or fastening your boots before battle. What I didn’t tell them was that there are times when none of those things matter. That no amount of preparation could prevent the kind of death many of them would meet.

The motion of the wheel sank deep into my hands as I leaned my weight into the sword, turning it again at just the right angle until it held steady against the stone with almost no sound at all.

“Give it a try.” I handed the sword to the man beside me.

The unsteady look in his eye did little to reassure me. If I had to guess, I would say he had once been a mason or one of the laborers who maintained the city walls. He didn’t look as if he’d ever swung a sword in his life.

He was at least ten years my senior, but he gave me an obedient nod and took the sword, eyeing the blade. It was a humble weapon, the iron a flat gray and missing the faint shimmer of the swords that had been forged and strengthened with godsblood. With the right blow, the metal would fail him.

He got to work, stepping into my place so he could position its edge against the wheel as it cranked back to life. The sound of metal on stone filled the tent, and I watched his eyes focus, his strong hands turning the sword a bit clumsily until it slipped, sending an eruption of sparks into the air. He caught it by the handle before it fell to the cobblestones underfoot, eyes wide as he looked up at me.

I motioned for him to try again, and when he set the blade to the wheel this time, it took only seconds before he had the feel of it. The medallion that hung around his neck signified him as a citizen of Isara, but I paid no mind to the family name engraved on it. These recruits weren’t the apathetic privilege-born legionnaires I’d sparred with in the training ring. The ones who grew up in the Citadel District, enlisting for their parents’ political gain. They weren’t the zealous, hot-blooded youths I’d fought beside when the first breath of rebellion flooded the streets, either. These were dwindling remnants of the Lower City. Broken pieces of lost family lines who’d joined up for the rations and the protection of the New Legion. I’d stopped looking at their faces months ago, eager to keep myself from recognizing them when we pulled the arrow-pierced bodies from the streets. But the questions still hung in my mind as I drew the smell of the hot metal into my lungs. How many children did this man have? How many would miss him once he was gone?

He lifted the blade from the wheel, and when I gave him a nod of approval, he stepped back in line.

“Next.”

I gestured to the man behind him, an old Isarian with a white beard and sun-worn skin that sagged. As soon as he drew his sword, I exhaled a little. He had strong hands and arms. That, at least, was something. But that meager sense of hope withered when I saw the talisman that hung alongside his medallion. The braided cord lay beneath the opening of his tunic, a sign that this was a man who believed the gods would protect him.

He tried to be discreet when he glanced up over my head, but then forced his eyes down with a look of shame. He wasn’t the only one in the group I’d caught staring at the mark. That was something I hadn’t gotten used to. I didn’t think I ever would.

It had been almost six months since the gods had marked me, placing a faint circlet of light over my head. It wasn’t as visible in the glare of the sun, but in dim, shadowed light like this, it glimmered just enough to catch the eye.

The scrape of the wheel sounded in fits and starts as the man got started, and I tilted my hand in the air silently, showing him the correct angle. He made the adjustment, giving me a grateful nod, but my attention was slowly drawn to the opening of the tent, where I could hear the low hum of voices. Dust had been stirred into the air.

My brow creased, my arms falling from where they were crossed over my chest, and I watched the light outside change just a little. Far beyond the walls of the city, the sun was just rising over the horizon, but the stillness of the camp had shifted somehow. I could feel it.

One by one, the recruits were sensing it, too. They looked up, faces turning toward the sunlight, and the man lifted the sword from the wheel, waiting.

“Every blade,” I ordered, leaving them.

I pushed outside, expecting to find my tribune waiting, but he was gone. The moment the Centurion’s medals had been placed on my chest, I’d been assigned a handpicked legionnaire honored for his talents in battle. A tribune’s only job was to protect the highest-ranking soldiers, and in the last three months alone, I’d watched two of them die. This one would be the third.

I looked up and down the street, trying to spot him. I hadn’t been able to shake him from my shadow for more than an hour at a time. So, where was he?

The Loyal Legion’s barricades were erected along the riverfront, where the soldiers who’d been our brothers-in-arms less than a year ago were hunkered down and waiting for the end we all knew was coming. They’d chosen their side, just like we had. And most of the time, I could hardly blame them for it. The only question was how much blood would be spilled before it was finally over.

Our sprawling camp marked the hard-won front line, flanking the opposite edge of the river that cut the walled city of Isara in two unequal parts. The first was the Citadel District, where the Citadel sat on a hill, encircled by the villas of the Consul, Magistrates, and other highborn families. It was still dark, save for the lights of the Forum’s great dome, the streets empty. The commotion wasn’t coming from there.

Behind me was the Lower City, ten times the size of the district and filled with everyone else. It had taken months to fight our way through the compact maze of streets and buildings all the way to the edge of the Sophanes River, and for twelve nights, we’d held what was left of the Consul’s Loyal Legion on the other side. It, too, was quiet. Just beginning to stir as the temperature warmed.

It took a few seconds for me to realize what was off. It was the camp itself. By this time each morning, there were already legionnaires going about their daily tasks, and in preparation for what lay ahead, there was more than enough work to be done. We outnumbered what was left of the Loyal Legion, but the last stand in the district would be a bloody one. In a matter of days, we’d be crossing the river.

I took a step forward, where the tents opened up enough to see past the camp. It was all but empty now, a stream of red tunics spilling down the bank of the river. Except for one. My tribune appeared, pushing through the legionnaires in the opposite direction. As soon as he saw me, his pace quickened. He had one hand clenched to the hilt of his sword.

“What the hell is going on?” I snapped, eyes scanning the growing crowd in the distance.

“It’s the south bridge, Centurion.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, my gut twisted.

For the first time, I looked the tribune in the eye. His dark irises were sharply focused on me, the set of his jaw firm. There wasn’t so much as a ripple of unsteadiness there, but I could sense the faint shadow of something else.

My feet were moving before he could fall into step beside me.

“Three bodies this time—Magistrates.” He kept his voice low, confirming what I already knew.

It wasn’t the first time dawn had broken over the hanging corpses of Magistrates and their families on the south bridge. They were the reason this war had started, the wielders of the judgment stones that controlled the fate of the city. But now they were being hunted one by one, emboldening the soldiers of the New Legion with the promise of an empty Forum once we crossed the river.

“Are there any women?” I rasped, throat tight.

“Sir?”

“Women.” I could barely get the word out. “Are any of them women?”

“Yes. Two women and one man.”

My pulse was racing so fast now that it felt like my heart would stop altogether. More legionnaires ran past us, everyone headed to the bridge, and I pushed into the crowd as panic flooded my veins. I could see the pillars of the stone archway ahead, but there were too many people. I couldn’t get a view of the water.

The tribune stayed close to my side, one arm shoving into the bodies before us to create a path. But it took only a moment for the legionnaires to recognize me, a collective hush falling over them. They parted until the street was open before me, and their gazes drifted above my head to the mark, a look of reverence falling over their faces.

I ignored them, taking advantage of the opportunity to get to the railing at the river’s edge. Once I could see the bank, I struggled to keep my steps steady until I reached it.

Not her. Please, gods, don’t let it be her.

“Centurion.”

My tribune’s voice faded away behind me, my heart turning into a knot wedged between my collarbones. I couldn’t breathe for the several seconds it took for my eyes to find them. Three bodies were hung from the bottom of the bridge, their forms limp and heavy. The river ran below their feet, the water white-capped and quick as it traveled from one side of the city to the other.

The dead man’s face was turned up to the sky, his neck gruesomely broken, and his bulging red eyes open and empty. He had a crescent ring of hair that crested his balding head and a bloom of dark blood stained the front of his fine white tunic. It looked as if he’d soiled himself, too.

I nearly lost my balance, catching the railing as my vision focused on the pale blond braids of the woman who hung beside him. She was missing a sandal, her bare foot blue and misshapen, as if it had been crushed.

Not her.

But the third body was turning slowly in the air, the face hidden by a curtain of dark hair. My hand tightened on the railing, slick with sweat. My chest felt like it was caving in, my whole body bracing for what I was about to see. The green silk chiton fluttered in the breeze, gently caressing the pale hands that hung limp in the air, her skin almost completely drained of its color. The tassels of the belt at her waist were caked in mud, the ties unraveling, as if she’d been dragged through the streets. A shaking breath escaped my lips as the glint of a gold ring caught the light.

I swallowed down the urge to retch, as slowly, the body continued to turn on the rope. The wind picked up, blowing the length of hair across her face, and by the time I could see it, black was pushing in along the edges of my vision.

It wasn’t her.

The image of the woman suspended from the bridge was instantly replaced by my memory of another, which was cast across my dreams each night. Salt water dripping from her hair, the sound of her laugh. The shape of her body beneath the wet silk as she waded out into the sea. The memory flashed in my mind, flickering in and out until the blue-tinged face of the dead woman finally came back into focus.

Not her. Not her.

A sharp, tingling feeling spiraled from the center of my belly as I finally inhaled, and then I was pushing back into the gathered legionnaires, away from the river.

“Centurion?”

The tribune followed at my back, but I kept my eyes on the cobblestones until I reached the edge of the crowd, certain that I was going to pass out. I barely made it to the corner of the building across the street, my legs threatening to give out beneath me with every step. I caught my balance on the stone just as I vomited, and I was only half aware of the tribune taking position behind me to hide me from view.

I retched until my stomach was empty, the rush of blood in my head making me dizzy. By the time I was steady on my feet again, my tribune was waiting, discreetly holding a cloth between us. I took it, trying to catch my breath.

“Are you alright, sir?” he said, eyes still fixed to the street. He’d been like a splinter beneath my skin for weeks, but he at least did me the courtesy of not watching as I wiped the vomit from my mouth.

The crowd at the bridge had multiplied now, and the sound of cheering had begun to fill the air. The collective chant took shape slowly, growing louder as more voices joined in.

“Thirty-three! Thirty-three! Thirty-three!”

The number changed every time a Magistrate’s body was hung from the bridge—it was the number of them left in the Citadel.

“Centurion Roskia,” my tribune murmured.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to breathe through the sick feeling still gripping my gut. I knew he was right. The Centurion Roskia and his cohort of forty-eight legionnaires were some of the best soldiers we had, and there was no doubt that they were one of the reasons we’d managed to push the front all the way to the Sophanes River. But he was also the most brutal and barbaric Isarian in our ranks, and he’d made a name for himself by hunting down and killing every Magistrate who attempted to flee the city. After more than two dozen unsanctioned skirmishes and executions, he’d been relegated to the gates in an effort to contain him until we crossed the bridge. But that hadn’t kept him and his legionnaires at bay.

“Thirty-three! Thirty-three!” The sound of the words warped in my mind.

The seats in the Forum were now half empty. And it was only a matter of time until I saw Maris Casperia hanging from one of those ropes. And when that happened, it wouldn’t just be the end of me. It would be the end of everything.

I pushed off the wall, stalking back toward the camp, where the smoke from the temple fire was still rising from the Illyrium. I glanced back one more time at the crowd, at the fists lifting into the air, the sound of a bright, fragile hope in their voices.

Traitors, they’d called us, when we first revolted. Defectors and rebels. When the first arrows flew over the Forum. When the first barricades went up. But it wasn’t until I saw the bodies in the streets that I realized what we’d done. And for that, I didn’t know if there was a name.

CHAPTER 2

NOW: MARIS

If I could cut the name from me, I would.

The paintbrush moved over the canvas in an arc, bristles twisting as the portraitist rolled it between his fingertips. The pale yellow pigment was a shock against the background he’d chosen to depict, a dense forest of trees you wouldn’t find anywhere within the walls of Isara.

He waved the brush in my direction and I lifted my chin a little higher.

“This is a waste of time.” My hands clenched beneath the fabric of my robes, back aching as I sat erect on the stool.

“Almost finished now,” he murmured.

My own face stared back at me from the enormous portrait, the details of my eyes, mouth, and hair so perfect that it almost made me sick to look at it. The pure white Magistrate’s robes draped around my figure, coming to a neat point where my medallion sat just below the center of my throat. The round, flat pendant forged in the temple wasn’t just my identification. It was the token of my citizenship. The engraved name of Casperia was legible, even from where I sat, but the portrait was like everything else in this city—a lie.

The portraitist dipped his brush into the smear of green on his palette, and my eyes fixed on the glimmer of the pigment. The paint was mixed with godsblood, giving the canvas an eerily lifelike effect when the light hit it.

“We’re going to be late,” I said through gritted teeth, trying to hold my face still.

“We won’t be late.” Nej’s crackling voice echoed in the chamber before he appeared in the doorway.

His robes were only half tied, the folds of the fabric loose. My uncle had never been distinguished in appearance, but somehow he always managed to clean himself up enough to look the part of a scribe. He smoothed down the side of his hair that almost never lay flat, stopping beside the portrait to study it with a serious expression.

He winced. “She needs to look older.”

“I’ve painted her as she is,” the portraitist snapped, retaining a sense of defensive pride for his work even now, as the city was days from falling.

“That’s the problem,” Nej pressed. “They’re already suspicious of her. The least you could do is make her look dignified.”

That made me drop my pose. I turned my head to fix him with an icy stare.

He shot me a dismissive look. “You know how this works. The only reason you have that seat is because your mother chose a cup of poisoned wine over her duty to the Citadel. The first question people will ask about you is if you’re a coward, like she was.”

My throat constricted at the harsh, unbridled words. Not because I had any semblance of feeling for my mother. That was a title she gained merely by birthing me. What made me stiffen was the reminder that what she’d done was a shadow over my place in the Forum. I’d always known I’d take the seat of a Magistrate, but not like this. Not in the middle of a war that had destroyed the city.

For my whole life, I’d dreamed of wearing the robes so that I could do the exact opposite of my mother and the Magistrates who’d driven our city to rebellion. I’d had a plan. A carefully wrought one that had cost me everything. But the day my mother cast her vote to execute the Philosopher Vitrasian was the day that plan fell apart.

Nej tsked, impatiently crossing his long, lanky arms. He glanced from me to the portrait and back again. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do about the fact that you look like a child.”

“I’m not a child. I’m twenty-four years old,” I corrected him.

He ignored me. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing they’ll be thinking about when you take your seat in the tribunal today is Ophelius.”

That, he was right about.

I’d taken a place as a novice to the Priestess Ophelius almost four years ago to avoid the attention and scrutiny of the Citadel. While other sons and daughters of the Magistrates took novice-ships in the legion or as a scribe, I had bided my time quietly in a prestigious but low-profile position so that once I took my robes, I would have as few enemies as possible. My uncle thought that devoting myself to the myths and customs of the gods was beneath our family name, as did my mother. But no one could have predicted that the Priestess would wind up being the tip of the first spear thrown in the rebellion. In that, my noviceship had been almost ill-fated.

“It certainly doesn’t help that you spent so much time in that blasted temple that no one knows a thing about you,” he continued. “Now you don’t have a single ally in the Forum.”

“I have you, don’t I?” I said, letting my eyes meet his. It was an actual question. I was almost sure that my uncle cared for me, which was more than I could ever have said about my mother, but he was as mercurial as the rest of them.

The hint of a smile softened the pinched look on his face. “I’m not a Magistrate. I’m a scribe.”

“The Consul’s scribe,” I corrected him. Some would argue it was a place more prominent than any other in the Forum. He had the ear of the most powerful man in Isara. That wasn’t nothing.

“You’ll always have an ally in me, Maris.”

Hearing him use my given name made me want to believe him. A name was a thing of intimacy and closeness when spoken, and the permission to use it was a rare gift. It was customarily reserved for those with whom you shared blood or soul, and Nej was family.

That was why, six days ago, when I’d found my mother’s lifeless body on the floor of her study, the first thing I’d done was walk the dark, empty streets of the district to my uncle’s villa. He hadn’t shed a single tear for his sister, nor had he shown even a shred of surprise at the news she’d poisoned herself. Instead, he’d sent a message to the Citadel and a strict protocol as old as the city was enacted. With the death of my mother, a seat in the Forum was open, and as the only child of Magistrate Casperia, I would be the one to fill it.

Two days later, my robes arrived and the portraitist was commissioned to paint my official portrait. It would be hung in the Tribunal Hall, replacing my mother’s. Just in time for the Citadel to burn.

I let my gaze trail to the window, where I could see more of the city than I wanted to. The streets and alleys that snaked between the rooftops of the Lower City were a tangled maze where the flash of sunlight on swords and scale armor flickered in the shadows. In every direction, the encampment of the New Legion was spreading. They were everywhere, growing by the day as more lowborn Isarians continued to join their ranks.

After months of battle, the New Legion had made it to the banks of the Sophanes River. Now, they were waiting to cross it—a reality that, only months ago, the Magistrates had sworn was impossible. No one had actually said it yet, but we were trapped. The Citadel District had slowly become a prison guarded by a dwindling band of soldiers who were losing resolve by the day. The only reason the New Legion hadn’t stormed our streets and cut our throats was the grain. What remained of Isara’s food stores was sitting beneath the Citadel, and taking the last of the city meant nothing if everyone was doomed to starve to death. And that wasn’t the only priceless thing down in the catacombs.

There were still some left in the district who believed the Consul would win the war. That once the legionnaires crossed the Sophanes, the gods would intervene and they would meet their end. But I’d seen the number of their fires growing each night from the roof of our villa. I’d seen the Magistrates’ bodies strung up along the bridge.

After a moment’s hesitation, I finally let my eyes wander to the white walls of the Illyrium in the distance, where the insignia of the New Legion had been rendered only days before. It was clearly visible from the windows of the Citadel, which, I assumed, was the intent.

The insignia was the sharp silhouette of a kneeling legionnaire, face gazing up toward the heavens, as if waiting for a blessing from the gods. The gold ringlet that encircled the figure’s head only confirmed that he’d received it.

Luca.

The moment his name wormed through my mind, heat flooded my chest, making it difficult for my lungs to draw a breath. I found the soft skin at the crook of my arm beneath the sleeves of my robes and pinched, trying to ward away the lump that came up into my throat. It was the same feeling I had every time I cast my eyes across the river. Like the hot oil from a lamp spilling from my heart into the rest of my body. That insignia was the closest I’d come to seeing Luca since all this began.

Nej gave me an almost sympathetic look, following my gaze to the window. “I know this isn’t how you imagined taking your robes.”

That was true in a way he could never know, but I said nothing, letting him believe that my grief for Isara and its people was the source of that excruciating burn behind my ribs. But it wasn’t. Every time I looked across the Sophanes and saw the torchlight of the New Legion, I wasn’t thinking about the Citadel or the Consul or even the district that was my home. I was thinking about the last time I’d seen the face I was supposed to grow old with. I was remembering the gleam of lamplight in eyes the color of the sea and the sound of my given name spoken by a voice that was only a ghost in my mind now.

“As for the tribunal,” Nej continued, clasping his hands behind his back, “do you remember what we talked about?”

I let out an irritated breath. “I am not to speak unless addressed by the Consul.”

“And what else?”

“I am not to look at anyone as if I want them to be hurled from the windows of the Forum.”

Nej gave me a firm nod. “Exactly. Now, the Consul will call the tribunal to order and then—”

“Nej, it’s not my first tribunal. It’s not even my fiftieth.”

I’d grown up attending them with my mother, a practice that most children of Magistrates were expected to partake in. If we were to inherit their seats one day, we had to be instructed from a young age. And it wasn’t just procedures and formalities we were learning. We were meant to be ingrained with the politics that no one gave speeches on or plastered onto the sides of buildings. There was a bigger game afoot—one that influenced the turning of the judgment stones in every single tribunal. The highborn families and the ever-shifting balance of power between them was the tide that controlled the tides of our city.

“It’s your first one as a Magistrate.” His voice deepened just a little, and I could tell that he was worried. I could see it in the way his mouth twitched. “There’s also the dinner with the Consul.”

I let my eyes trail to him, managing to hold my pose still for the portraitist.

“I hope I don’t have to tell you how important it is that you make a good impression.”

“I know.”

“If there’s anyone who can win you the favor of the Magistrates, it’s him. There isn’t a single one among them who isn’t trying to ensure their place after this war.”

My fingers tangled tightly in my lap. Every time Nej mentioned after, it made my heartbeat slow just a little. There would be no after if the Consul didn’t try to negotiate the peaceful transfer of power when the New Legion took the Citadel. That was exactly what I intended to use the opportunity of the dinner for—a plan Nej would never approve of.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

Nej turned to face me. “Of course.”

“You really believe it? That all of this is going to end with the Forum intact?”

His eyes cut to the portraitist, whose paintbrush slowed on the canvas.

“I know as well as you do that there is only one way for this to end,” he said, voice tight. “With this rebellion crushed and the Citadel reinstated with its power over all of Isara.” The words were a warning that such conversations were not meant for the ears of those we did not trust. “The more you show that faith in the Forum, the more leverage you will have with your judgment stone. Don’t forget that.”

I didn’t answer, but I held his gaze long enough for him to be satisfied that I wouldn’t argue. I knew he was right. We were far past the point of entertaining those thoughts. More than half the Loyal Legion was gone and the Citadel District was trapped between the river and the walls. They’d once existed only to protect us—the gates far across the city so that we’d be shielded from any breach. Now they had become a cage we were trapped in.

He walked to the south window, his eyes cast out over the city. But then his sauntering steps faltered, the expression on his face falling.

“What is it?” I asked, studying him.

Nej didn’t answer.

I got to my feet in the next breath, crossing the room as the portraitist groaned behind me and his brush hit the palette with a clatter. Nej leaned into the window ledge with both hands and I followed his gaze to the river, where a swarm of red tunics was gathered at the south bridge. From this distance, I could just barely make out the three bodies suspended over the water. I didn’t need to see their faces to know they were Magistrates.

Nej was silent, the vein at his throat pulsing.

I dropped my eyes, trying to quell the sick feeling blooming inside me. “How many?” I whispered. “How many are left?”

“If all three are Magistrates?” Nej exhaled. “Thirty-three. The gods do not reward cowardice.”

The wretched souls hanging from the bridge weren’t the first to try to escape through the Lower City. They wouldn’t be the last, either.

The low-pitched peals of the bell tower rang out, calling the Magistrates to the Forum.

“Come,” he said, squeezing my wrist. “We don’t want to be late.”

When I turned back to the study, the portraitist already had his paint box closed up.

“I’ll be back in the morning.” He rose slowly from his chair to stretch his legs, shooting a glance at the south window before he left.

Nej tied the strands of his robe clumsily as he looked me over. He straightened the medallion around my neck, brushing off my shoulders before he gave me an approving nod. Instead of turning for the door, he went to the desk, gathering up an armful of scrolls.

“What are you doing?”

He set a few of them into my hands. I inspected them, turning the parchments to try to read what was inside. “What are these?”

“Just something to make you look like you know what you’re doing.”

I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t, making me think that there was more riding on this than I probably knew. When I tried to imagine myself in the grandeur of the Forum, sitting in my mother’s seat, the truth settled in the pit of my stomach. I had no idea what I was doing. And now, more than ever, I wondered if I’d made the right decision that night. For so long, I’d been telling myself I’d had no choice. I didn’t know anymore if that was true.

“Ready?” Nej asked, setting his gaze on mine.

I drew from the confidence in his eyes, that steeled look of surety he’d always had, and I pushed the memory away. “Ready.”

CHAPTER 3

BEFORE: MARIS

The air was full of rose and spice.

I wove through the market with quick steps, sending a glance to the sundial’s shadow cast on the outer wall of the Illyrium. The morning’s tribunal had gone long, and while Priestess Ophelius didn’t like it when I was late, she also wouldn’t let me through the doors of the temple on a feast day without an offering.

Carts filled with silk, bread, and herbs littered the walkway where the citizens of the Citadel District were haggling over wares in their own preparations for the festivities. There would be parties, rituals, and ceremonial gatherings for the next three days to observe the First Feast, honoring the goddess Eris, keeper of life itself. Once the sun set, a new year would begin.

When I spotted the cart I was looking for, I tugged the length of my chiton higher, turning to the side to wedge myself through the crowd. A hunchbacked woman was perched on a stool over a collection of jars that glowed like liquid gold in the sunlight. Large slices of honeycomb were suspended inside, the bright amber color signifying them as a delicacy from the most remote coastland meadows. The honey was tinged with the scent of orange blossoms, the very fruit that the goddess Eris used to divine the future.

I already had my drachmas in hand, studying the jars carefully before I chose one. Eris would receive countless offerings in the next few days, and if I wanted to garner her favor for the year ahead, I needed a gift that would stand out among the others.

As soon as I plucked one from the cart, the coins were clattering on the table and I pushed back toward the bridge with the honey clutched to my chest. The market edged along the outer wall of the baths, and from the look of it, they were full. The steam lifted into the air behind the carved stone walls, where the Citadel District’s residents were preparing for the events that would go well into the night. My mother would spend her afternoon in our family’s private chamber there, being bathed by our servant Iola before her skin was scrubbed with herb-scented salts. By sundown she’d be covered in the glow of rare oils, her hair intricately braided and dotted with jewels. Our family had been given the honor of hosting this year’s First Feast for the Magistrates, and my mother had had Iola polish her obsidian mirror weeks ago. There was no room for anything but perfection tonight. Not when the whole of the Forum would be in attendance.

Scores of people were streaming in from the Lower City, on their way to work in the villas and shop fronts of the Citadel District. By nightfall, every window would be illuminated with firelight, the celebrations drowned in wine. The Lower City would have to wait until the residents of the Citadel District were sleeping off their drunken stupor to hold their own parties.

Two men with large wooden dowels propped on their shoulders barreled up the bridge, nearly knocking me into the street lantern as they passed. A gutted pig carcass was strung up between them, its hooves bound, ready for roasting. The smell of the raw flesh made my stomach turn.

When I finally made it across the river, I walked faster, sweat beading between my shoulder blades. The courtyard of the Illyrium was bursting with people who’d come to collect the blessed water in the fountain. It was the only temple in the city dedicated to all twelve gods, and on feast days, people lined up for half a mile along the river, ceramic vessels cradled in their arms or dangling from ropes. Tonight, they would be placed at the doorways of every home so that guests could cleanse themselves before paying homage to Eris.

I took the stairs up to the Illyrium’s entrance, where a marble carving of the three faces of the god Phaedo painted a shadow on the steps. The huge marble walls of the temple blocked out the noise of the city, and the thick smell of incense curled softly in the air. The great hall was lined with enormous statues of the gods that watched with empty eyes as I crossed the polished floor with quiet steps. In the three years I’d been a novice to Ophelius, the Illyrium had become a second home. A place where I found myself moving by memory.

I passed the chamber that housed the temple smith, where he worked over the smoldering forge. The sound of water on hot gold hissed as he cooled a newly made medallion, sending a metallic scent into the hall. I slipped off my sandals and went to the nearest stone washing bowl, where cold, perfumed water from the fountain outside was replaced every hour. The customs of entering the temple had been ingrained in me since I could walk, even if my mother had never had much reverence for the gods. I scrubbed my hands and arms methodically before I washed my face. My feet were next, dipped into the hammered bronze troughs along the wall, and then I pulled back my hair from my face, tying it at the nape of my neck. The perfume of quince and rosemary replaced the dusty smell of the city that clung to my skin, washing away the last bit of the outside world before I entered the inner chamber of the temple.

I held the jar of honey in both hands as I stepped inside, where Ophelius was already standing at the altar. Her long silver hair trailed down the center of her back, her shoulders square beneath a robe embroidered with a shimmering gold thread that had been spun with godsblood. It was the one she wore only on feast days.

She didn’t turn to greet me when she heard me coming, but she didn’t turn to greet me. She never did. I came up the aisle with steps slow enough to be considered respectful and dropped to the ground to press my forehead to the stone. But when I rose and saw what Ophelius was doing, I all but ran to the altar.

She had the ceremonial knife clutched in one hand, suspended in the air as she watched her wrist drain into the porcelain bowl before her.

“You started without me,” I rasped, setting the jar of honey down haphazardly and pulling up the sleeves of my robe.

“You are late,” she said, letting me take the knife. It was carved from the bone of a whale with a design of gentle waves that commemorated the sea. The shining blade was smeared with godsblood.

I took over the ritual with quick hands, setting down the knife and taking Ophelius’ arm to balance it over the bowl. The blood that dripped from her wrist was laced with the metallic sheen that signified the magic of the gods. The deep crimson glimmered as the light touched it, as if gold dust had been stirred into it.

The altar was stacked high with bundles of basil, baskets of pomegranates, and strings of garlic. A sea of gold and silver drachmas had also been littered throughout in an offering to Eris.

Ophelius’ eyes lifted to the tapestry strung up above the altar as her wrist dripped. A flock of doves was depicted in the scene there, little golden halos stitched in godsblood thread set atop each of their heads. The symbol identified them as those who were gifted by the gods, a distinction that could come in the form of a mark like this one or even an object that had been given to a mortal. Whatever the gifts, their meaning was the same. They were bestowed only upon those who’d been chosen to enact the will of the gods. But the days of the gifts had long been over.

“Recite the story,” Ophelius said, waiting.

I exhaled, wondering if the test was meant to punish me for being late. The Twelve Feasts took place on the first day of each month, with a different god or goddess honored as the seasons passed. It was a time for telling stories and recounting the history of Isara, and by now I knew most of them by heart.

I studied the tapestry, eyeing the details of the background. The only words were written in the first language, which Ophelius had refused to teach me. She insisted that there was no good that could come of speaking to the gods in their own tongue. But I could tell the scene was a banquet. A long table was set with a feast, and the doves hovered over the heads of the gods who were seated there. I recognized the imagery but couldn’t quite place them in a sequence of events.

“I do not know it, Priestess,” I said.

I didn’t have to see her face to know she was disappointed in me. In three years, the woman had never criticized or praised me. That wasn’t her job. It didn’t matter that I was the daughter of one of the most powerful women in the city. As a novice in this temple, my only function was to learn.

Ophelius’ eyes moved from one dove to another. “The goddess Aster was at war with a greater god, Remillion. But she lacked the strength to conquer him.”

Aster. The goddess of war, the very one to whom the city of Isara was consecrated. It wasn’t the typical kind of story that was revisited on the First Feast, especially since the feast was dedicated to Eris. Not Aster. She wasn’t honored until the Twelfth Feast.

“She’d been parted from her sister, Eris, throughout the fight. But when she heard that Eris was to marry the god Toranus, Aster took seven perfect white doves from the sky and sent them to Eris as a wedding gift.”

My gaze trailed over the golden halos that crested the delicate brows of the birds.

“Eris accepted the generous gift,” Ophelius continued, “instructing her servants to bake the doves into pies for the wedding feast. But upon taking the first bite, Eris fell dead, as did her entire wedding party.”

My head turned, and I looked at Ophelius. Her expressionless face was still cast upward, toward the tapestry.

“Why?” I asked.

“To incite the wrath of Eris’ new husband, Toranus.” Finally, her eyes drifted to mine and they caught the light with a silver glow. Her narrow face was lined in soft wrinkles, her irises the color of moonbeams. “Aster could not beat her enemy, so she found someone who could. She told her new brother that the doves had been cursed by Remillion, and Toranus sent his armies to join Aster’s. The battle was swift, and after only two days and nights of fighting, Remillion was vanquished.”

I wanted to ask the meaning of the story, but I’d learned a long time ago that I had to be sparing with my curiosity. There were only so many questions Ophelius would tolerate from me. So, I waited for her to impart some lesson that I was meant to take with me to the Forum in my days as a Magistrate. Or some deeper wisdom I could use as a novice. But Ophelius just looked at me, eyes moving over my face as if she were looking for something.

The Priestess was like water, filling space and receding in a flow that made her seem as if she weren’t as material as the rest of us. And she wasn’t. She was the third-generation daughter of Priestess Ursu, who’d stood at the side of the legion on the front lines of the Old War.

I could see the fierceness of her ancestor in her eyes. The one who had performed the blood rites to secure the greatest bounty Isara had ever won. When the legion conquered the great city of Valshad, it wasn’t gold and silver they were after. The legion laid waste to the city in search of only one thing—the gifted magic that had made Valshad prosper. Godsblood.

There were five Valshadi Priestesses in the temple when they stormed the gates, all souls within whom that magic dwelled. Two successfully took their own lives rather than give the godsblood to Isara, but the three who failed were subjected to the blood rites when they refused to gift their magic to three Isarians. Leah, Cadie, and Ursu—Ophelius’ great-grandmother.

The act of the blood rites was a shameful desecration. One that hadn’t been performed since and that Ophelius never spoke of. There were only two ways for the magic to pass from one mortal to another. It had to be given or it had to be taken. And the only way to take the godsblood was to drink it. Every single drop.

Over the last hundred years, the stolen magic of Valshad had bolstered the city of Isara with the favor of the gods, sparing us famine, disease, and even war. It was bound to the bodies of the three Priestesses who dwelled in the Illyrium until the day they chose to gift it to someone else. But Ophelius had no child, and it was no secret that the Magistrates were growing concerned over the fact that she hadn’t yet passed on her magic. She was a stubborn woman who wasn’t easily controlled, and the Citadel was eager for a young Priestess who could be tended. Coaxed to grow in one direction like a loyal grapevine.

The gold-tinged blood dripped into the bowl, and once it was filled, I tilted her arm carefully. The wound slowly healed, knitting itself back together. I reached for the thin, flat mother-of-pearl stone set on the cloth before me and placed it against her forearm. Gently, I scraped it against the skin until the last of the godsblood was gathered onto the stone, and I set it into the grooves of the bowl so that it could drip.

From there, the precious liquid would be siphoned into vials and delivered to the Citadel. A single drop of godsblood lent the strength of the gods to mortals. The entire city had been built with its magic. It was sown into the fields, baked into the clay bricks of the Citadel, infused into medicines, and even forged into the weapons of the legion. But over the course of one hundred years, its use had been all but defiled. Now the godsblood was cast into jewels, spun into thread, painted onto trinkets—anything the highborn of Isara desired. There were even vials sold to the highest bidder, an idea that made my stomach turn.

Ophelius’ eyes fell to the jar of honey on the altar stone. “Very good, Casperia. But be careful. You don’t want to become a favorite of the gods.”

“I thought it’s an honor to chosen by the gods,” I said.

She glanced back up at the tapestry, to the halo-crowned doves that arced across the scene. “I’m not sure the doves would agree.”

I didn’t notice until then that she was a shade paler than usual, a darkness hovering beneath her eyes. Down the hall, the hiss of the temple smith working sounded again.

“You don’t look well, Priestess.” I touched her elbow gently, but she pulled away from me, taking a stick of incense from the silver bowl at her side.

“Are you ready for tonight?” She ignored my concern, changing the subject.

“I am.”

“I hear Matius will finally be introducing his heir to the Magistrates.”

I’d heard the same, but her mention of it surprised me. Ophelius didn’t usually take any interest in the frivolous, vain world of the Magistrates. In fact, there was nothing she despised more.

My mother had talked of almost nothing else since the rumors of Magistrate Matius’ illness started circulating. He was her rival in every sense of the word, the leader of the opposing political faction in the Forum. My mother had spent her entire time in the Citadel slowly chipping away at his majority hold, and she was close to balancing the scales of power. But now, he was dying.

It had been years since Matius had adopted his nephew in order to secure the inheritance of his seat in the Forum, but for the most part he’d kept his heir out of sight. Everyone in the Citadel District was talking about the succession of the seat that would open upon Magistrate Matius’ death. He had managed to ensure it would stay with his family name, but no one knew anything about the nephew who would wield the judgment stone.

He didn’t bring him to gatherings in the Citadel District or parade him on the balcony of the tribunals the way other Magistrates did with their children. He’d waited. For what, I didn’t know, but it was no coincidence that the night he chose to finally bring his new son into the light was the same night my mother was hosting the First Feast. It was a slight. A declaration of war, even.

Matius’ faction was determined to keep its majority in the Forum after his death, and the most reliable way to do that was to find a reputable Magistrate family to marry his nephew into. There were those among my mother’s faction who could be swayed by the prospect of joining with a family name as prestigious as Matius. The party tonight would be a perfect opportunity to make that kind of alliance.

“I want you to get a sense of him,” Ophelius said.

My eyes narrowed on her. “Matius’ heir?”

She nodded.

“I’m not sure my mother would—”

“If the favor of the gods is truly what you seek, it will take more than a clever gift to gain it, Casperia,” Ophelius said, cutting me off. “You can’t lead a city with a jar of honey.”

I swallowed, instinctively glancing again to the gift I’d left on the altar.

“You will hold your mother’s seat sooner than you think.” Her voice lowered, the words making me shiver.

Her pale silver eyes shone just a little brighter as she said it, her tone ringing with prophecy. It was one of the gifts the magic afforded her, but it was incredibly rare for Ophelius to share her insight into the future with me.

“You will meet Matius’ heir. You will learn what you can of him,” she said again.

She waited for me to answer with a nod before she reached into the sleeve of her robe and produced a small scroll that matched the many she’d had me pen for her in the past. She held it in both hands, fingers careful, as if considering its weight.

“A message?” I reached for it, but she moved it from my reach. Her eyes were searching mine again with that same penetrating look.

After a long moment, she finally let me take the scroll, but her eyes followed it as I tucked it into my chiton.

“Where would you like me to take it?” I asked.

“The Philosopher Vitrasian.” Ophelius turned back to the altar, dipping a stick of incense into the fire. Once it was lit, she waved it through the air, letting the smoke drift over her. “Now go. I must pray.”

The smoke began to billow, the sound of her voice already taking on the monotone timbre of chanting. I picked up the bowl before me, the godsblood gleaming in the light, and cradled it in my steady hands as I made my way down the aisle. When I reached the doors, I glanced back, tracing the hazy image of the Priestess enveloped by the smoke.

She always spoke in riddles and stories, forcing me to unearth the meaning of things. But her request had been simple and direct, and that could mean only one thing. Ophelius had taken an interest in Matius’ son.

CHAPTER 4

NOW: LUCA

I stalked back through the camp, headed to the Illyrium with the sound of the crowd at my back. The rows of tents grew wider as I neared the towering colonnade that had once served as the entrance to the Lower City. Beyond its archway, the Illyrium was still whole.

I glanced up as I entered the courtyard, a familiar discomfort bleeding into me. The temple’s entrance bore the likeness of the god of peace, which was an irony that I took no pleasure in. It was one of the oldest buildings in Isara, constructed long before the Citadel that sat across the river, but now it belonged to the New Legion.

Great white pillars carved in deep, uniform ridges stood shoulder to shoulder atop the temple’s steps, where six legionnaires were posted with swords in hand. Along its roof, archers were at the ready above the three carved stone faces of Phaedo looking out over the square. In its center sat a large round fountain where Isarians used to come collect the water blessed by the Priestesses. Now, for the first time in nearly three hundred years, it was dry. But it was the smooth white stone wall that faced the river that drew my eyes now.

The insignia of the New Legion had been painted in red, black, and gold across the pale stone. The symbol stretched at least thirty feet high, like a flag that couldn’t fall. Couldn’t burn. Couldn’t be shot down. The depiction was of a soldier on his knees, bloodied short sword hanging from his hand as he looked up toward the sky. A gilded halo encircled his head, and every time I looked at it, I couldn’t help cringing.

It wasn’t just any legionnaire. It was me.