Iris moonblade's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Iris Moonblade meant to be the goddess's chosen voice, and the relic that would prove it had just arrived at Pinehollow without her. She watched the pilgrim caravan crawl toward the temple gates. A rival priestess walked at its head, hand already resting on the relic case. If that woman carried it inside, she would speak for the goddess, and Iris would kneel below her for the rest of her life. Iris counted the distance. The caravan would reach the temple before she could run the road. She wore twin daggers joined by a cloth sash, sandals laced to her knees, and the goddess's red symbols painted down her arms. None of it made her faster than a caravan already at the gate. A fairy darted past her ear, wings catching the light. Iris caught it gently in one hand. "I have honeyed fruit," she said. "Fly ahead. Tell them the true priestess is coming. Buy me time." The fairy nipped a sweet slice from her palm and shot toward the gate. Thoren came at a run behind her. He guarded the fairies, and he had loved Iris since the day she saved his clan. He knew her plan before she spoke it. "Take Black Blade," he said. He was already unbuckling the harness from the great cat's back. The panther paced beside him, black fur rippling, blue eyes fixed on Iris. "He'll cut through the orchard. No road can beat him." Iris gripped the harness. "He answers to you." "He answers to you too." Thoren pressed the reins into her hands. "Go. I'll hold the gate crowd if the fairy fails." Iris swung onto Black Blade's back. The cat surged beneath her before she found her seat. They tore into the orchard of candy-colored trees, blossoms bursting loose as the panther's shoulders drove through low branches. Sweet fruit smashed under his paws. Iris flattened against his neck and let him choose the line. The fairy's stalling worked. At the gate, pilgrims had crowded the rival priestess, slowing her to a crawl. Iris broke from the trees as the woman lifted the relic case toward the temple steps. Black Blade landed between them. Iris dropped from the saddle and stood on the steps first, chest heaving, daggers bright at her hips. The crowd went silent. Pilgrims sank to their knees, not for the rival, but for the red-marked priestess who had come out of the orchard on a guardian's beast. The rival's hands trembled. She held the case out to Iris. Iris lifted the relic above the kneeling crowd. She had won her place. But the rival's stare told her this was not forgiveness. It was a debt, and the woman would find a way to collect. Iris held the relic higher and let the pilgrims see whose it was.