I was oblivious.
Blissfully oblivious.
Poppy and I make our way from the dock to the Coliseum, where separate lines have formed.
There are two sections of the Coliseum and two types of tickets: The cheap seats are free since attendance is required, and the costly seats are stocked with extra amenities for those who can afford it.
Anyone is free to sit where they like, but the reality is that Dogio are on one side, Basso on the other.
We take our place in the free-seat line, slowly working our way to the open-arched doors. Standing on my toes, I squint to spot Nico and his parents in the crowded line next to us. But I don’t see him. I try to peek inside, get a glimpse of the mosaic Sun in the entryway, where we always meet before we’re pulled our separate ways. But the Basso line lurches forward before I see anything.
To gain entrance, we hand over the same medallions that fell through our door this morning to an Imperi soldier who drops them into a metal box and waves us through.
Poppy hands his over, tipping his old straw hat.
I turn mine over to the same soldier.
The instant I’m through the archway, I’m greeted from across the open space by a smiling Nico. Poppy eyes Nico and then me, mumbling, “Be quick about it, eh?” under his breath, and then disappears up the stairs to our section.
I bound toward Nico, who’s a decent ten feet away, but slow down when I hear the clatter of my boots echoing against the stone tile, at numerous eyes watching us, at how my stomach suddenly tightens with the guilt and embarrassment of spying on him yesterday.
Surrounded by silent murmurs, the wind whispering through the vast hallways of the Coliseum, Basso herding one way, Dogio the other, it’s like Nico and I are stuck in the middle. Caught in the eye of the storm.
“Hey,” he whispers, thankfully not leading with questions about my sneaking.
“Hey.” I give a cordial nod.
“Are you all right? Was anyone hurt last night?” He leans in, searching my face, my clothing as if looking for signs of distress.
“It’s not great. They broke into our house.”
He leans in even closer. “What?”
I nod, then allow my sight to wander. A Basso girl watches me from the corner of her eyes as she kneels before the multicolored tiled image of the Sun.
Not too far past the girl, Nico’s father glares our way, and then, taking Lady Denali’s arm, turns and heads up the stairs.
“Do you need to…?” I motion toward his parents.
Nico follows my eyes. “I said I’d meet them at our seats.” He glances back to where the Dogio—a sea of darkness flecked with bright red—flow up the stairs through the archway, the words BLESSED BE THE LIGHT carved in the stone over them. “Actually…” Nico looks into my eyes. “I’m sitting with you.” He takes hold of my hand beneath my shawl. And before I can question his decision, we’re following the other Basso up the opposite stairs and to our seats.
“Your parents,” I hiss to Nico under my breath. “They’ll kill you.”
Nico stays quiet, but his jaw tightens like he’s working the idea over. Like he knows I’m right. But like he doesn’t care.
I lead the way to our usual spot—where the section above provides the tiniest bit of shade—and Poppy’s jaw goes slack at the sight of Nico behind me. But he recovers quickly. “Ah! Nico, welcome.” His eyes crinkle under the pressure of a genuine smile.
Nico adjusts his black hat so the rim better shields his face. “Morning, sir.”
My grandfather cocks an eyebrow, snorting under his breath, his usual response over Nico calling him sir. Poppy’s long since given up telling Nico not to bother.
We sit down, me next to Poppy, Nico next to me.
People stare. A child two rows down keeps glancing back, staring at Nico’s red scarf—a gaping wound awash the muted olives and tans and beiges of traditional Basso garb. The boy tugs on his father’s sweater, points, and urges the man to glance back. The father scowls and then picks the boy up and places him on his lap.
And they’re not the only ones.
Word’s spreading.
Dogio never sit on our side, and I can’t tell if they’re curious or angry or simply confused over it.
I lean in toward Nico. “This was a bad idea.”
“Charging money for better seats when Basso have to bake in the sun is a bad idea. It’s not right.”
“Since when do you scoff over your cushy, shaded chairs?”
Nico takes in our surroundings again, working over his jaw. “Since now. I want to be here, Veda. You’re not able to sit with me, so I’ll sit with you. It’s not a sacrifice, it’s a choice.”
“I’m glad you’re here, but—” I’m about to comment on how nice it is he has that choice when my grandfather cuts me off.
“Psst!” Poppy brushes my face with the essence of the peppermint leaf he’s chewing, setting his sights to the highest perch in the Coliseum. Imperi High Regent Raevald enters.
“Welcome, citizens of Bellona.” Raevald’s voice blares out over us, golden speaking-trumpet placed to his mouth. “Dogio.” He raises his right arm toward the paid-seating side of the dome. “Basso.” He does the same for our side. High above us all, wearing a black suit, his dark, slick, graying hair hidden underneath a bright crimson hat, the High Regent towers in a balcony, flanked by Imperi officers. He stands behind a podium, and as he preaches, he scans the crowd laid out before him. “As we bring out the Offered, that praiseworthy soul, we shall pay homage to the Sun.”
Each person stands, head bowed in respect, prepared to follow along with the Prayers.
“Almighty Sun, life force to all beings, we implore thee. Bless us with your light. Provide for us plentiful harvests, protection from the Night, and prosperous life. In return, we vow to keep this society strong, for we are ever indebted.”
There’s a pause, a moment of silence in reverence for the Sun, for the Offered, and then the Regent adds, “As we bear witness to this sacrifice, we remember: ‘A thriving Bellona is only as strong as the light that shines upon it. Blessed be the light.’”
“Blessed be the light,” we repeat.
We resume our seats. The Coliseum is silent, at rest, barely a breath taken. Even the wind ceases.
A golden-pink sunstone altar stands in the middle of the Coliseum; to its left, a large hourglass. To the altar’s right is a dried-out canal. When the hourglass is turned upside down and the gold sand spills into the bottom bulb, the floodgate is opened. Sea water rushes through the door, filling the canal so it runs over onto the gravel floor.
Across the Coliseum, another door opens.
A woman enters the arena. She’s draped in all white—traditional of the Offered—and is flanked by two Imperi soldiers. The soldiers don’t touch her; in fact, they walk slightly behind. At this moment in time she is a sacred being. Neither Basso nor Dogio. Chosen by the Sun through the Imperi for Offering.
But as the woman comes closer, I catch her face and the sight sends my heart to the floor. I must make a pained noise because both Poppy and Nico glance at me.
The woman lives in the south village. Our village. Maisy Jarrow. She raises chickens and sells eggs in the market. I’ve known her for as long as I can remember. Despite that hers was one of the homes burned down last year by the Night, I cannot recall a time she’s been without that warm smile across her face.