As with most of Bellona’s history, the Offering dates back to the Great Flood.
The story goes that our island was birthed of the Sun. A star itself, born of the most important star, Bellona was holy, but it didn’t ascend to the night sky. Instead, it was pulled downward, toward the land below.
Ashamed, the Sun cast his only child into the sea. But the small star wouldn’t descend to the ocean floor either. It was stuck. An unremarkable speck amid vast blue.
Its fire went out, but still Bellona floated, a flat, dark disgrace of a star.
Soon it sprouted roots and came to life, bearing plants and animals and the most beautiful of trees and waterways. People even came, built a society. Lived off the shunned star.
The Sun, in his humility, instantly regretted the shame he’d felt. He vowed to protect his one and only child—a beautiful land star—for all time. For it was one of a kind.
When the island was hit with the Great Flood, it was seen as punishment, a sign from the Sun that he was displeased with his Bellona, with the people he’d chosen and entrusted to take care of it.
Thus the Offerings were born. To please the Sun, to prove how thankful they were, what a blessing it was to live on this holy island, the people of Bellona would offer their god the greatest of sacrifices. Life.
It’s said one day a new child of the Sun will be born. A star unlike any before or after.
That it will ascend into the heavens, but not before bringing about a great reawakening over all of Bellona.
I’m not sure if that’s meant to be a good thing or a bad thing.
Or maybe it’s just a nice nighttime story.
SIDE BY SIDE, my and Poppy’s footsteps echo in the stillness that haunts the air. Every soul in Bellona is required by law to attend the Offering. There’s a steady stream of Bellonians making their way toward the boats that will transport us to the Island of Sol for the ceremony. But no one speaks. The Offering is a reverent time, a time of prayer and reflection, silent respect for the Sun.
The market is secured and boarded. The iron fence surrounding its perimeter stands tall, the gates locked with a complicated metal device crowded with cranks and levers. The Sun shines down on it at the perfect angle so it blinds us with its silvery glare.
As ominous as the silence is, it’s nothing compared to last night’s destruction. Signs of the Night of Reckoning hit us around every corner.
Anti-Night postings, normally tacked to the sides of buildings, are torn to shreds and littering the streets like fallen leaves. A few of the altars for the missing have been tipped over, photos and blessings and candles scattered.
The main hourglass that controls the bells, the curfews, has been defaced. Written in black and red paint against the light pine frame are large ornate letters spelling out the words BEWARE OUR RECKONING!—the g in reckoning is a perfect crescent moon and the word beware is written in red and drips like a freshly sliced cut.
We arrive at the dock just in time to catch the second-to-last transport to the Island of Sol—a small mound of earth a mile out, the only thing there, the Coliseum. There’s nothing else surrounding Bellona save unforgiving, rough seas. Nowhere to travel. Nowhere to start anew. Nowhere to hide. It’s just us, the Night, and the Sun’s mercy.
Before too long we spot the festively colored Coliseum flags adorning the uppermost wall: red, orange, and yellow repeating along the massive circumference of the open dome. The large triangles whip with the wind.
As a child, I would jump up and down at the sight. The day was a holiday, an exciting outing when I’d wave my homemade white flag hastily embroidered with the Imperi Sun. But that was then … I didn’t know anything about the world, how things would play out, how pleasing the Sun meant someone had to die. That the Night were so cruel. Or that I’d one day be friends with a Dogio whose dimple I shouldn’t think about, whose hand I certainly shouldn’t hold.
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.
Until now.
I wouldn’t say she looks sad or afraid or even angry. Just … different. As if in a trance. And maybe that’s the state you’d need to be in to do such a thing … Sacrifice yourself for the greater good of your people. Walk straight to your death and not turn back screaming, “I change my mind!”
Because, yes, Maisy Jarrow received a medallion with a bright Sun imprinted on one side this morning, but she also agreed to be the sacrifice.
If the Offered doesn’t agree to volunteer after being chosen, another medallion is plucked from the chest. It’s rare, but it does happen. Though the fallout isn’t pretty. Those who refuse their fate face unofficial shunning. Sometimes worse. Because no one turns their back on the Sun. Or the Imperi.
Out of nowhere, a pained scream overtakes the Coliseum. The startling sound sends my heart to beat in my ears. In special seats, front and center, sits Maisy’s family: her husband, elderly mother, and teenage son. It’s the older woman who cries out for her daughter. “No! Not my Maisy!” she wails.
Maisy doesn’t react. She doesn’t face her family. She’s so incredibly focused, she strides straight to the altar and holds her hands, palms up, over the top.
Simultaneously, the soldiers slice each of her palms. Without so much as flinching, Maisy places her hands upon the sacred sunstone altar. Maisy’s blood, symbolic of her gift to the people and island of Bellona, is forever imprinted.
Her mother’s cries peter out, and when I gaze down to their seats, I see she’s slumped over herself, praying, refusing to watch.
A raft is brought in by golden cart, set afloat in the newly filled canal before the altar. It’s tethered to a stake in the ground, and a black crescent moon is carved and painted into the top, a sign that this Offering is a sacrifice for protection against the Night.
The raft, ornate and made of the finest materials, is designed to give way the hour the Sun rises next morning. This provides the Offered long enough to appreciate the Sun and reflect on their sacrifice, how they’ve given the ultimate gift for the betterment of their community. It is then the rope, tied to last a full rotation of the Sun at most, will unravel and the raft will collapse, sending the Offered to the Great Sea in recognition of the Great Flood, and as an appeal to ward off another. Everyone’s—Dogio’s, Basso’s, Imperi’s, and, I’d dare a guess, the Night’s—greatest fear.
At the sight of the raft, her final resting place, Maisy raises her bloodied hands to the sky. Her hair is light and graying, twisted into a bun atop her head, a single sunset flower placed in the center like she was born with it. Red drips down her wrists, streaking her forearms, staining the pristine petals.
The soldiers help Maisy onto the raft, where she kneels, hands lightly folded in her lap.
The last of the gold sand fills the bottom bulb of the hourglass.
A single bell rings, reverberating around the circle of the Coliseum. Birds flee from the trees behind the dome.
My skin prickles.
One slice of the rope and the raft is set free.
Slowly, the raft is carried down the canal, under the floodgate, and eventually makes its way out to sea.
Maisy the kind egg lady is no more. She’s now known as the most recent Offering. Sacrifice for protection against the Night.
I close my eyes as the floodgate is cranked closed. Under the veil of darkness—the scraping of metal on metal filling the background—I hope and pray that this one will take. That Maisy’s sacrifice will be the last. That—please, please—the Sun will be satisfied and the Night will leave us be.
But in my heart, I know it isn’t so.
I don’t open my eyes until I know she’s gone and that the gate is closed. Some will stay until the last boat back to Bellona and watch, sit at the cliff’s edge, squint and shade their eyes, until the Sun sets on the horizon and until the Offered is nothing but a speck in the distance. Many have brought blessings to throw into the sea after Maisy.
As the canal drains, the crowd stands, applauding, praising the day’s Offering.
I stand out of respect, expectation, but can’t begin to bring my hands together.
Nico finds my hand and gives my fingers a slight squeeze, sending a tingling warmth over me, but lets go just when I’ve accepted how nice it feels. If even for a second, I covet the warmth that lingers.
I glance up toward the High Regent’s balcony to gauge his reaction.
He’s vanished.
NO SOONER THAN the raft is set to sea, the inner ring of the Coliseum is transformed into a celebration, the altar and hourglass left for viewing. We’re allowed to touch the altar, and many do, believing it holds special blessings all its own, gifts from the many souls who have given their lives there.
But it’s mostly the Dogio who will enjoy the celebration today. Us Basso have much cleaning up to do. Besides, my stomach is in knots, the fresh impression of Maisy’s handprints enough to set my eyes stinging.
I can’t face the celebration, can’t begin to understand how anyone can. Carts of food line the middle of the arena, as market merchants set up around the edge and musicians play for entertainment. Right now, it’s a lyre duet. The scents are overwhelming: cinnamon-glazed almonds, grilled sausages, fresh-baked strawberry pies. Giggling children run, winding in and out of stands, waving flags, their faces sticky from sugary treats. I used to be one of them.
Things were simpler a lifetime ago.
The Sun shines down on the scene, Maisy’s memory buried beneath the bitter of curried meats, her blood on the altar, her last mark on this world gradually wiped away with each touch.
Poppy didn’t want to stay for the celebration either. He’ll wait for me at the dock while I wait for Nico to check in with his parents. Supposedly he’s going to come back to the village with us, help clean up, but I’m not sure Lord and Lady Denali will allow it. Especially after the disappearing act he pulled on them earlier.
“Sick, isn’t it?” I startle at the low murmur near my ear. I glance up to see Dorian, a hardness to his expression, completely opposite from yesterday. Still, at the sight of him, recalling yesterday, our walk through the tunnel, a couple of butterflies stir.
“Is it?” I reply, pushing the stirring away. That stirring’s reserved for Nico. I don’t want to have butterflies for anyone else right now. They’re obviously confused.
My eyes once again find the rust-red-stained altar. Though, questioning him isn’t what I intend. I want to agree, but can’t find the words, the courage to do it, especially with so many Imperi soldiers sauntering about. “It’s for the best, I suppose, especially after last night,” I hear myself say, as if on autopilot.
Besides, if I confide anything to anyone today, it’ll be to Nico. My first words? Something like, “I was a complete sneak last night, but it was beyond my control. I’m embarrassed, but I don’t regret it.” I saw too much.
Dorian raises an eyebrow. “We can only hope.”
I nod. That I can agree with.
Grabbing two fresh-baked rolls from the cart beside us, Dorian motions toward a bench away from the throng.
As we make our way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, my eyes are on high alert for Nico—he’ll be searching for me.
We sit on the bench and Dorian hands me one of the rolls, but I shake my head and fold my arms around my middle. “No thanks.”
“Not hungry? I get it, but”—he tosses a chunk of bread into his mouth—“free food is free food.”
I accept the roll, but hold it between my palms. “I’ll take it to my grandfather.”
Dorian nods. We sit in silence a few moments until he asks, “How bad were you hit last night?”
“Bad. They wrecked our home, but we’re safe.”
Dorian turns his head to face me. “Can I help you clean up? Our damage wasn’t horrible. Only the outside of our shop was painted up, posters torn down.”
“Oh, thank you, but Nico’s…”
“Veda—” Nico and an Imperi-uniform-clad Arlen approach. Nico’s just taken a bite of a turkey leg and has two others wrapped up. His eyes briefly take in Dorian sitting next to me.
I stand, step toward Nico. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get away.”
“My parents weren’t happy but I convinced them I needed to do more, help with the cleanup, especially since you were so badly hit and our village got next to nothing.” I don’t say it, but we’re always badly hit and his village never sees damage.
“Wait—did something happen last night?” Arlen jokes.
I glare, shocked but also not. I’ve daydreamed about punching Imperi soldiers in the gut, but never have my fingers itched so badly to actually go through with it.
Dorian snorts in disgust under his breath, and both Nico and Arlen glance at him. Sitting on the bench, finishing his roll, surveying the crowd, he looks back at us, then stands. “Dorian.” He shoves his hand out for Nico to shake.
Nico accepts and introduces himself and then Arlen. Dorian doesn’t offer his hand to Arlen, and Arlen keeps his thumbs firmly hooked over his weapons belt at his middle.
There’s an extended silence between the four of us until Dorian says to Nico, “I heard you braved the cheap seats today.”
“That news traveled fast.” Nico side-eyes Arlen.
“Oh, it was all the talk. But it’s about time.”
Nico’s jaw clenches slightly, but he smiles. “I agree.”
“I don’t know what he was thinking!” Arlen cuts in, hand now clenched over the blade strapped to his belt. “Why would anyone choose those seats over the comfort of the others?”
“Some don’t get a choice.”
Arlen cocks his head toward Dorian, part amused, part something sinister, based on how his eyes have narrowed, and his finger twitches over his sword.
“Well,” I break in, “we should get going. Poppy’s waiting for us,” I say to Nico. “Thanks for the bread.” I hold it up and tell Dorian goodbye.
Arlen and I exchange only a moment of eye contact.
Imperi soldiers and Basso aren’t supposed to socialize. A glance here and there, a sterile comment about Coliseum seating, a crack over the Night of Reckoning, that’ll be the extent of our engagement from now on. Basically, not much will change.
As we pass the Offering Wall—the memorial for those who’ve volunteered for sacrifice—a newly added bronze plaque, Maisy’s name freshly engraved into it, is being added. I’m reminded that I won’t ever buy eggs from her again, hear her hearty laugh, or smile back at her infectious grin.
In the distance, Maisy’s family kneels at the edge of the island, her elderly mother balled into her knees, hands against the earth. The image, sad as it is, isn’t what catches me. It’s what the woman is mumbling into the ground.
“Fear the Night … Fear the Night … Fear the Night…”