Children of Virtue and Vengeance: Chapters 1–13

I open my eyes to the cold, gray sky; to the howling ocean crashing against Jimeta’s rocky bluffs.

The incantation sounds strange on my lips. Until a few weeks ago, no Reaper had the magic to perform an ibùkún for eleven years.

Between the riots and food shortages, it’s hard enough to secure a measly bag of rice.

Her soaked, white tunic is a far cry from the ornate geles and gowns she wore when she was Orïsha’s princess.

Amari hands Tzain a rusted torch from the captain’s quarters and a fresh jar of oil taken from her own meager ration.

Families line up across the dock, handing over gold pieces as they board a small mercenary ship.

It’s one of the few rooms on the ship free of majacite: the special ore the monarchy used to burn the maji and neutralize their powers.

We’ve barely spoken since the ritual went awry.

“What’s brought my favorite maggot crawling out of the dirt?”

He motions for me to join him, and I hesitate, following the bundle of ropes attaching his shoddy pulley system to something above.

In the distance, a long line of people trudge along, white-haired maji and dark-haired kosidán boarding a modest boat.

I pull the black dashiki over my head and toss it onto the growing pile of clothes on my bed.

I have to atone for those sins today.

I scramble to my feet, pressing my face against the smudged porthole glass. For the past three weeks, all it revealed were gray seas. Now vibrant coral reefs shine through turquoise waters.

Nobles line the path to the rally site, black hair occasionally marked by the white streaks of tîtáns. Magic-less kosidán gather behind them, soldiers and military officers milling through their masses. I find my people standing at the fringes, white hair barely hidden under large hoods.

Amari comes to my side, imposing in her suit of armor.

I don my own stolen breastplate, sliding my staff where the past owner’s sword would have gone.

Unlike the others, he stands at the front of the crowd, hood obscuring his small white coils.

Across the room, two burly soldiers exchange glares.

The timbre in my voice surprises me; I can almost see it ripple through the dome.

“I wanted to hide my truth,” I shout. “My apprehension about what I’ve become..."

For centuries these powers have been the source of our strife, but the gods ordained us with magic so the people of Orïsha could thrive!

The crowd’s chant reverberates inside me, awakening pieces of me I didn’t know I had.

Like her daughter, Nehanda wears a suit of armor, but hers shines in gold. The polished plates curve over her chest, accented with serrated shoulder pads and sculpted gauntlets.

“Elegant lies. But these aren’t the words of a devoted leader. Only the vitriol of a power-hungry tyrant.”

“You tell these people their king has fallen, but you fail to mention the crime of regicide by your hand? You speak of your late brother without admitting it was you and the maji who killed the rightful heir to the throne?”

“A rebel who allies with liars and thieves. An insolent child who has endangered us all with magic just so she can be queen!”

Amari’s cries shrivel even further when the queen’s guards enter the dome, distinguished by their golden armor and razor-edged swords.

In the glare of their gilded seals, I see Mama’s corpse.

“I will not allow you and your maji insurgents to run this kingdom into the ground,” Nehanda shouts. “You are under arrest for your crimes against the crown! Anyone who aids you shall be taken down!”

The queen’s personal guard closes in from all sides, golden armor flashing as they run. Like Nehanda, their forearms gleam with matching gauntlets.

I scream with rage as Nehanda’s tîtáns desecrate the magic of Grounders before my eyes. How dare they wield our own gifts against us?

The tîtán falls into the sand, his corpse trampled in the fray.

I try to forge ahead, but when the first tendril of majacite hits my neck, I can only scream.

The poison sears the skin of my calf.

“Do you honestly think now is the right time to quibble for your payment?”

Gravel and dirt fly as we careen across the mountainside.

No more fighting against the monarchy. No more fighting just to exist. No more tears. No more strife. No more pain.

The question pulses through my mind when I look around the dreamscape. The last time I was brought to this ethereal space, Saran’s knife had just carved through my back.

I step back when he groans, muttering to himself in a stupor.