Castle of Ashes

Chapter 9

The morning mist has dissolved, giving way to the relentless march of the morning sun. The air remains cool, a vestige of winter on the brink of yielding to the beckoning call of spring. Yet, amidst this changing season, a low, menacing growl punctuates the atmosphere. It's a stark contrast to the rhythmic beat of the iron wagon wheels, a sound more akin to a crash or rumble than a creature's growl.

We move beyond the towering walls of Charming, and the brick-paved street transforms into a bustling thoroughfare. Troops in uniform stride purposefully, heading toward their designated posts. Raised concrete flower beds divide the expansive walkway of the castle. The scent of early-blooming hyacinths, irises, and daffodils weaves through the air, their petals swaying in the chill morning breeze.

The street widens, revealing two meticulously designed structures: the mint and the trade center. As towering blue spruce cast a shadow over patches of emerald lawns, each stands tall, flanking the path. Workers in earth-toned attire—a mixture of burnt umber and woody brown—move about, tending to their daily tasks.

From the open arc of the wagon tent, I'm granted a view of Charming's intricate details. The outer bailey, where I began this journey, stands as a grand testament to the castle's magnificence. Its black brick walls are washed out, and enclosed by a protective ring wall. While it exists on the periphery of the living area, it retains its connection to the heart of the castle's charm.

As the wagon navigates further, we reach the inner bailey, and a formal rectangular garden unfolds before my eyes. Paths divide the garden into four sections, further subdivided based on space and utility. A well that has evolved into a vertical feature with intricate marble columns is located at the intersection. Seats—some fashioned from turf—are integrated into the walls. Verdant plants and blooms sprouted, concealing the branches of red dogwoods that had accented the fading winter.

"We've arrived at the town hall, Lady Lemour," the wagoner, who had been silently driving, announces. With his weathered features and experience, he's been an essential part of the militia's support for years.

Peering outside, a civic center of grand proportions comes into view, with massive columns carved with the emblem of Charming supporting its façade. Four uniformed guards stand at attention, awaiting my arrival at the massive marble doors.

As I exit the carriage, the carpeted entrance absorbs my steps. The clamor within the hall crescendos, a cacophony of glass clinks, footsteps, and voices. The air hums with excitement, and there's only one reason for such a festive atmosphere—the assortment.

For most attendees, the assortment is a form of entertainment, an occasion for merriment. However, for the fifteen contenders, it's a different story. For us, it represents a trial by fire, a grueling competition where the feeble-hearted falter and the skilled earn respect and the privilege of serving the royal bloodline.

The most tragic aspect is what befalls those who lose. They never return home, fading into oblivion or becoming subjects of sinister rumors—sold into servitude or worse.

The weight of these thoughts forms a lump in my throat, and the reality of the impending ordeal nearly suffocates me. Moving forward, I enter the carpeted hallway that leads to the grand doors of the town hall. A servant approaches, his gaze both respectful and sharp.

"Welcome, Lady Lemour of the militia. Please follow me to the holding area. The presentation is about to commence," he informs me formally.

I comply, as my expectation had been to meet Lieutenant Ferran, who would guide me to a concealed room where contenders wait before being presented. Evidently, he recognized the militia's insignia and volunteered to escort me to the designated area.

Silently, we proceed down a corridor, where two cloaked women stand. They open the door, granting us access to the room where the contenders are gathered.

"Please, sit in the gray chair," the servant instructs before vanishing from view.

As I enter, the gazes of twelve other contenders lock onto me. They sit in their assigned seats, each representing a distinct sector, their colors signifying their allegiance. Walking down the aisle feels awkward, with their collective attention weighing heavily on me.

My chair is positioned at the room's edge, flanked by empty chairs in red and white. Settling into the cushioned seat, I feel the tension among the contenders—a palpable, electrifying rivalry—coursing through the air. Nervous energy manifests in nail-biting, raised eyebrows, and side glances, all swirling within the confines of this holding room.

There's the limited acknowledgment of my presence, as my sector, the militia, has historically fared poorly in past assortments. To the others, I'm an unknown, a cipher in the grand scheme of things. A contender from a sector perceived as weak, a mere shadow against the backdrop of established reputations.

The wooden door grates against the floor, attracting our attention. I reflexively turn to see a young woman wearing a fiery red cloak, adorned with intricate embellishments. Beside her stands a slim figure swathed in a snowy cloak lined with fur.

The girl in red fixes me with an intense gaze, one that seems to strip away my confidence, leaving only ashes. In contrast, the white-cloaked contender appears oblivious to my presence, awkwardly maneuvering her chair.

A growing sense of discomfort washes over me as the girl in white settles beside me. My breathing becomes heavier, the air thickening until I can almost feel its weight pressing against my chest.

Without looking at me, the white-clad girl mutters an apology, preempting any potential complaint. Her awareness of my unease is unsettling. She senses my thoughts, preempting them and offering an apology before I can voice my discomfort.

Despite the unease, I manage to cast a sideways glance at her. She remains focused on the edge of her chair, her grip white-knuckled, her body trembling. Does she, too, feel the weight of this ordeal?

Who is she? A young woman cloaked in white, radiating immense power—a power that effortlessly unravels my defenses.