Sacrifice of the Seven Sins: A YA Romantic Dystopian Novella by Emily Colin

Author:Emily Colin [Colin, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Orchid Books
Published: 2023-07-05T04:00:00+00:00

3

ARI

“Walk.” High Priest Erlich bites out the word, as if it tastes foul.

Much as it pains me to be at his mercy, I oblige, striding along the pathway that leads from the sacristy to Clockverk Square with my head held high. A bellator escorts me on either side, as if to prevent me from fleeing—an unnecessary precaution. If Priest Erlich expects me to mewl or try to escape, he’s got the wrong citizen.

When Mother Trondheim said that she was at the end of her rope with me, I knew what was likely to come. Taking the blame for Gentian’s bird was an easy decision. I was already in trouble; adding the responsibility for rescuing that wretched-looking thing did me little additional harm. Gentian, on the other hand, isn’t nearly so resilient. I shudder to think what would’ve happened if he’d wound up kneeling on the sanctuary floor the way I had so many times—or, worse, forced to empty the storerooms’ traps of all the mice’s bodies, smashing their skulls in the event he found them half-dead. In the Commonwealth, the punishment so often fits the crime; the Priests have an unerring sense of what will damage you most.

And this time, the punishment is mine.

I have to suck in my breath when we enter the Square and I see all of the people standing there—more citizens than typically attend an execution. After all, there’s no lower age limit on watching a whipping. Even the little ones are here today.

It’s just pain, I tell myself. Pain is finite. You’ll endure, and then you’ll heal.

The whipping post is stationed at the edge of the Square, to the right of where the beheadings usually take place. It’s stark and wooden, stained with the vagaries of weather and old blood. Seeing it, my heart picks up pace. I breathe deeply, willing my pulse to slow.

If I must do this, then I will. But I’ll be damned if I let them see me cower.

A breeze sweeps through the Square, smelling of dirt and jasmine. I imagine I’m lying on the ground beneath the vines, stealing a rare moment of peace on Idle Day, looking up at the blue slices of the sky.

“Don’t dawdle,” the Priest snaps, and I resist the urge to retort that I wasn’t. Saying things like that is what got me into this situation in the first place—and today, they may well earn me twelve more lashes with the whip. Insubordination in private is bad enough—but to talk back to a Priest in front of the Commonwealth is an unforgivable lapse in judgment.

I take the first step from the dirt of the pathway onto the uneven cobblestones of the Square. The whipping post looms in front of me, growing ever closer as we approach.

Grant me courage, I pray to the Architect. Grant me the strength to stand true.

We reach the post and the bellators step back, flanking the Priest. “Take off your shirt, boy,” he says.

I pull my shirt over my head and let it drop to the stones of the Square.

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