#spellring

[luckloveandwaterfalls]

hi :> are there any characters from other media you think would thrive in the aouv world?

hi!!

i feel like lila bard from the shades of magic series would be pretty chill with the aouv world. she'd be like, i can control magick with just rings on my fingers? sick. plus if she ran out of spellrings she would pull out her many knives and just solve her problems that way.

idk if anyone has seen the tv show leverage, but sophie devereaux would be perfect in the tournament (if she was a lot younger ofc). she's a grifter and would be perfect at forming alliances and convincing ppl not to betray her/betraying others so cleverly that they don't realize they're walking into a trap.

also i recently finished reading the priory of the orange tree and i think ead would thrive in the aouv universe! niclays would be the exact opposite and it would be so funny. he would be grumbling next to the spellmaking society about the youths and getting pissed off abt the blood moon affecting his daily routine.

[kryhxkat]

"hes wearing a glove and only half the spellrings as usual he must think im weak" "he's only saying people will be sympathetic towards me if i say my family killed my brother because he wants me to do his plan" what is wrong with you both

[mosquito-man-man]

they cal me the spellr the wag i soell thijgs correctly

[evilpawnjewelry]

The Spelling Rings and Necklaces have released on the website, along with a blog about their existence and becoming. See blog for full post. • I am going to go down a road that I never really travel down. Rarely. The years of 1993 and 1994 were red lettered years in my life. You can truly see everything that I am now because of these years. The events catalog, to this day, sections of my personality in the same way a table of contents identify chapters to a book. My ‘becoming’ nurtured by the care and tending of these years. • This was the year that I had an understanding of the left & right that coincide with the spiritual world and the physical world. In the physical world, when we want someone to STOP or when defending ourselves, we naturally raise our dominate hand with our palm facing out. Stop. This is also the hand we “give” with. We give direction, we hand an object to someone, we pay for items, etc. We are dominate in giving. In the spiritual world our subordinate hand is the hand we receive with. What we receive in energy we give physically . When someone attacks us physically we use our dominate hand. When someone attacks us energetically , many make the mistake in thinking their dominate hand is the hand to stop the attack with. This is incorrect. You receive with your subordinate hand, no matter if it is given or thrown, you MUST refuse and END the action with your subordinate hand. You must choose what you receive. (For more see blog) • I designed my first ritual ring and it was the Spell Ring. Exact in every way you see it here. The first had my “name” on the top and the second hand a word of protection on the top just like the Spell Rings released today. Now, 26 years later, I manifest them for you. (For full understanding of symbols, uses, and history… please see my blog www.EvilPawnJewelry.com/blog/) • Many Bright Blessings friends and all of my love. Happy Week’s End! • #SpellRing #SpellNecklace #Spell #MagickSpell #MagickWords #SpellCraft #MagicSpell #spelling #ROTD #RingsOfTheDay #Amethyst #Quartz #CrystalHealing #MetaphysicalProperties #SymbolicLanguage #EPJ #EvilPawnJewelry #Rings #Necklaces #Crystals #AdornYourselfInMetal https://www.instagram.com/p/B2E1_DRFAFF/?igshid=rgbug68fhnp5

[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[barralrider]

Tall people are often asked to help retrieve something off a high shelf but if you asked a short person to pick something off the floor that could be insulting!

Tall people are often asked to help retrieve something off a high shelf but if you asked a short person to pick something off the floor that could be insulting! (self.Showerthoughts) submitted by spellred to /r/Showerthoughts 14 comments original

[lovemagics]

Voodoo Fidelity SpellFixings:MixtureBlue Nile incense sticksdevotion spellRed FlameBergamot oilPocketSystem:devotion spellInfluence a little doll of the individual you need to be loyal to you, out of the mixture.Stick Blue Nile incense into the leader of the doll. Light the incense until the fiery remains that fall of it coat the whole doll.devotion spell – in a container, put the doll. Hold it over a lit red light and toast the doll. Include a couple of drops of bergamot oil with the goal that the doll starts to boil a bit. Presently say the accompanying,“A chain of adoration, or one of desire,May you be bound, till your tissue is tidy?Never an eye, ever will you cast,Over another, until the point that you last.”Expel the doll from the dish. Place it into a pocket and hang it under the bed of the individual for whom it is made.Leave the doll there for 10 days. After this, cover it in a pot outside the window of the individual. Keep in mind to do this as this broadens the length of the spell and expands its viability. The individual will turn loyal with each passing day.This spell to stop cheating works by joining the power of visualizations to the potent lunar energies that make this form of energy so effective. When working with Faithfulness Spells it is important to remember that certain phases of the moon are most appropriate to particular magical workings. If you wish to focus on banishing negative energies and the third party of your life, you perform this spell when the moon is dark and waning. If you wish to draw your lover closer to you, you should perform the spell when the moon is waxing to full. Depending on how you choose to approach this Stop Cheating Spell you could work practically under any moon phase. To banish temptation or your own fear of imagined infidelity, perform this spell under a dark or waning moon. To increase commitment or fidelity in your relationship, work this spell under a full or waxing moon.

[ismokeitsite]

Xpost from r/mildlyinteresting !

Xpost from r/mildlyinteresting ! https://ift.tt/2OTnjfE Submitted December 06, 2019 at 06:58AM by spellred via reddit

[aion-rsa]

Tor Teen Acquires Dark YA Fantasy All of Us Villains (Exclusive)

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

“Do you hear that? That’s the sound of bones breaking.”

Are you hooked yet? The line above comes from the first book in an upcoming YA duology from Amanda Foody (Ace of Shades) and Christine Lynn Herman (The Devouring Gray). It’s called All of Us Villains and, judging by the synopsis and excerpt below, the book seems to harness the clever plot mechanics of The Hunger Games and the thematic brilliance of V.E. Schwab’s Villans series, all in one YA duology package. Or, as Senior Editor at Tor Teen Ali Fisher puts it:

Foody and Herman have conjured a wicked little city built on blood. Their story is a brutal one: a death tournament that takes place in the long shadows cast by legacy. It’s survival-of-the-richest, where the wealth is measured in magick. Foody and Herman wield sharp critiques of power, inheritance, and the culture of competition.

To expand on that a bit more, All of Us Villains is set in the city of Ilvernath, where every generation seven families compete to the death for control of high magick (2020, amirite?). While the “powerful, villainous” Lowes have won almost every tournament, this year, the victory is up for grabs as a “salacious, tell-all book” has given each of the other six champions “a means to win.” Very Triwizard Tournament.

All of Us Villains Co-Writing Team

Herman and Foody met in 2016 during Pitch Wars, and have been friends ever since.

“Some friendships have this sense of inevitability about them—like, of course we’re going to be in each other’s lives now,” said Herman of the relationship. “That was how it felt from the first time we ‘met’ via Skype and wound up talking for three hours. After that, we became critique partners for our solo projects, bouncing ideas off one another, reading drafts, offering invaluable feedback. We understood one another’s creative processes so well that it sometimes felt like mind reading. Co-writing was an organic next step.”

Foody adds: “As two lifelong fans of fantasy books, when it came to writing a story together, we wanted to subvert readers’ expectations of the genre while still writing a novel YA fantasy readers will love. We achieved this by crafting a fully fantastical, second world setting that is modern-inspired. These teenagers go to high school. They support indie spellmaker shops. They buy brand name enchantments. Not only was doing this wildly fun, it also makes the reality of the death tournament seem all the more grim. It feels a lot closer to home.”

All of Us Villains Excerpt

ALISTAIR LOWE “The Lowes shaped cruelty into a crown, and oh, they wear it well.” A Tradition of Tragedy: The True Story of the Town that Sends Its Children to Die

The Lowe family had always been the undisputed villains of their town’s ancient, blood-stained story, and no one understood that better than the Lowe brothers.

The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swathed in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the famous padlock chained around the gate–the one engraved with a scythe.

Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because the children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales–especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat and drink your soul.

All these tales were deserved.

These days, the Lowe brothers knew better than to tempt the town’s wrath, but that didn’t stop them from sneaking over the fence in the throes of night, relishing the taste of some reckless thrill. 

“Do you hear that?” The older one, Hendry Lowe, stood up, brushed the forest floor off his gray t-shirt, and cracked each of his knuckles, one by one. “That’s the sound of rules breaking.”

Hendry Lowe was too pretty to worry about rules. His nose was freckled from afternoons napping in sunshine. His soft curls kissed his ears and cheekbones, overgrown from months between haircuts. His clothes smelled sweet from morning pastries often stuffed in his pockets.

Hendry Lowe was also too charming to play a villain.

The younger brother, Alistair, leaped from the fence and crashed gracelessly to the ground. He didn’t like doing anything without magick, because he was never otherwise very good at it–even an action as simple as landing. But tonight he had no magick to waste. 

“Do you hear that?” Alistair echoed, wincing as he rose to his feet. “That’s the sound of bones breaking.”

Although the two brothers looked alike, Alistair wore the Lowe features far differently than Hendry. Pale skin from a lifetime spent indoors, eyes the color of cigarette ashes, a widow’s peak as sharp as a blade. He wore a wool sweater in September because he was perpetually cold. He carried the Sunday crossword in his pocket because he was perpetually bored. He was two years younger than Hendry, a good deal more powerful, and a great deal more wicked.

Alistair Lowe played a perfect villain. Not because he was instinctively cruel or openly proud, but because, sometimes, he liked to. Many of the stories whispered by the children of Ilvernath came from him.

“This is a shitty idea,” Alistair told his brother. “You know that, right?”

“You say that every time.”

Alistair shivered and shoved his hands in his pockets. “This time it’s different.”

Two weeks ago, the moon in Ilvernath had turned crimson, piercing and bright like a fresh wound in the sky. It was called the Blood Moon, the sign that, after twenty years of peace, the tournament was approaching once more. Only a fortnight remained until the fall of the Blood Veil, and neither brother wanted to spend it in the hushed, sinister halls of their home.

The walk downtown was long–it was a waste of magick to drain a Here to There spellring, and they couldn’t drive. Both were lost in their thoughts. Hendry looked like he was fantasizing about meeting a cute girl, judging from how he kept fiddling with his curls and smoothing the wrinkles in his sleeves.

Alistair was thinking about death. More specifically, about causing it.

The gloomy stone architecture of Ilvernath had stood for over sixteen hundred years, but in the last few decades, it had been renovated with sleek glass storefronts and trendy outdoor restaurants. Despite its disorienting maze of cobbled, one-way streets, questionable amenities, and minimal parking, the small city was considered an up-and-coming spot for the art and magick scene.

Not that the seven cursed families of Ilvernath paid much attention to the modern world, even if the world had recently begun paying attention to them.

The Magpie was the boys’ favorite pub, although no one would guess that from how infrequently they visited. Determined to keep their identities concealed and their photographs out of the papers, Alistair insisted they vary the location for their night-time excursions. They couldn’t afford to become familiar faces–they’d been homeschooled for that very reason. The way their grandmother talked, one whisper of their names and the city would be raising their pitchforks.

Alistair looked grimly upon the Magpie, its sign a dark shadow in the red moonlight, and wondered if the trouble was worth it. 

“You don’t have to come inside,” Hendry told him.

“Someone needs to watch out for you.”

Hendry reached underneath his t-shirt and revealed a piece of quartz dangling on a chain. The inside pulsed with scarlet light–the color of a spellstone fully charged with high magick. 

Alistair grabbed Hendry by the wrist and shoved the stone back beneath his shirt before someone noticed. “You’re asking for trouble.” 

Hendry only winked at him. “I’m asking for a drink.”

Magick was a valuable resource throughout the world–something to be found, collected, and then crafted into specific spells or curses. Once upon a time, there had been two types of magick: frighteningly powerful high magick; and plentiful, weaker common magick. Throughout history, empires had greedily warred for control of the high magick supply, and by the time humanity invented the telescope and learned to bottle beer, they had depleted it entirely.

Or so they’d believed. 

Hundreds of years ago, seven families had clashed over who would control Ilvernath’s high magick. And so a terrible compromise was reached–a curse the families cast upon themselves. A curse that had remained a secret… until one year ago.

Every generation, each of the seven families was required to put forth a champion to compete in a tournament to the death. The victor would award their family exclusive claim over Ilvernath’s high magick, a claim that expired upon the beginning of the next cycle, at which point the tournament began anew.

Historically, the Lowes dominated. For every three tournaments, they won two. The last cycle, twenty years ago, Alistair’s aunt had murdered all the other competitors within four days.

Before they’d learned about the tournament, the rest of Ilvernath could only point to the Lowes’ wealth and cruelty as the reason an otherwise mysterious, reclusive family commanded such fearful respect from lawmakers and spellmakers. Now they knew exactly how dangerous that family truly was.

So with the foreboding Blood Moon gleaming overhead, tonight was a risky time for the only two Lowes of tournament age to crave live music and a pint of ale.

“It’s one drink,” Hendry said, giving Alistair a weak smile. 

Although the Lowe family hadn’t formally chosen their champion yet, the boys had always known it would be Alistair. Tonight meant far more to either of them than a simple drink. 

“Fine.” Alistair threw open the door.

The pub was a cramped, slovenly place. The air was thick from tobacco smoke; rock music blared from a jukebox in the corner. Red and white checkered cloths draped over every booth. For the sociable, there were two pool tables. For those keeping a lower profile, there was a pinball machine, its buttons sticky from whisky fingers.

The Magpie was flooded with cursechasers. They traveled the world to gawk at magickal anomalies like Ilvernath’s, such as the curse in Oxacota that left a whole town asleep for nearly a century, or the curse on the ruins in Môlier-sur-Olenne that doomed trespassers with a violent death in exactly nine days’ time. Now, the tourists clustered in groups, whispering over well-worn copies of A Tradition of Tragedy, the recent bestseller that had exposed the death tournament and Ilvernath’s surviving vein of high magick… and that had catapulted their remote city into the international spotlight.

“I didn’t believe that the Blood Moon was actually scarlet,” Alistair overheard one of them whispering. “I thought it was just a name.”

“The tournament is a high magick curse. High magick is always red,” another answered. 

“Or maybe,” drawled a third voice, “it’s called the Blood Moon because a bunch of kids murder each other over it. Ever think of that?”

Alistair and Hendry avoided the tourists as they shuffled through the pub. “Do you think Grandma will start getting fan mail?” asked Hendry, snickering. “I heard there’s a photograph of our whole family in the first chapter. I hope I look good.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but that picture is from ten years ago,” Alistair said flatly. 

Hendry looked momentarily disappointed, then delighted. “So the entire world knows you had a bowl cut?”

Alistair rolled his eyes and headed toward the bar. Even though he was a year younger than Hendry, his hollow stare always made him look older–old enough to avoid being carded. 

After he ordered, Alistair found himself waiting beside a pair of girls bickering with one another. 

“Did you honestly come here alone?” the first girl asked. She smelled strongly of cheap beer, and like all of the patrons here, she wore crystal spellrings on each finger, glowing white with common magick. Alistair guessed they were filled with simple spells: Hangover Cure, Zit Zapper, Matchstick… whatever suited a Friday night pub crawl.

“Of course not,” the second girl said haughtily. “My friends are over there.” She gestured vaguely at the entire bar.

“I thought so,” said the first girl smugly. “You’re famous now, you know. There’s a picture of you on the cover of one of my mum’s magazines. You’re wearing sweatpants.”

“It’s been known to happen on occasion,” the second girl grumbled.

“I heard the Darrows have chosen now, too. That makes three champions so far–Carbry Darrow, Elionor Payne, and you.” The first girl smiled viciously, in the kind of way that made Alistair guess the girls had once been friends. “But no one wants the Macaslans to win.”

Alistair realized it now–he recognized the second girl. She was the Macaslan who’d announced her selection as champion months and months before the Blood Moon appeared, and the paparazzi had branded her the face of the tournament ever since. Alistair wasn’t surprised that the Macaslans would stoop to such desperate grabs for attention–his grandmother had always described them as the bottom-feeders of the seven families, willing to use unsavory methods for even a taste of power. But the Macaslan girl’s designer handbag and freshly pressed blazer hardly made her seem like the lowlife he’d imagined her to be.

At their words, several of the cursechasers turned to stare, and the Macaslan girl cleared her throat and smoothed down her vibrantly red curls.

“Well, I don’t care what people think of me,” she said. But Alistair disagreed. No one wore heels to a dive bar if they didn’t care about their reputation. “The evening news already called me and the Lowe champion rivals. Because I’m the one who’s going to win.”

The tipsy girl rolled her eyes. “The Lowes haven’t even announced their champion yet. Whoever they are, they mustn’t be that impressive.”

As the bartender slid Alistair his drinks, Alistair fantasized about how quickly the Macaslan champion’s confident expression would fade when he held out his hand, a ring glowing on his knuckles and charged with a curse, and informed her exactly how impressive he was.

But there would be time for that, once the tournament began.

Still, as he turned around, pints in both hands, he met the Macaslan girl’s eyes. They held gazes for a moment, assessing one another. But not wanting to be recognized, he turned and walked away.

At the pinball machine, Hendry took the offered glass and shook his head. “I thought you’d start something.” A spell shimmered around his ears–a Listen In, probably. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Maybe I should’ve.” Alistair took a sip and smiled despite himself. He shouldn’t be excited for the tournament, but he’d been groomed for it since his childhood, and he was ready to win.

“No, definitely not. What is it you say about our family? ‘Grins like goblins. They’ll tear your throat and drink your soul?’ You can’t help yourself. You have no restraint.” Although it sounded like Hendry was scolding him, his smirk said otherwise. 

“Says the one who brought a high magick spellstone to a dive bar,” Alistair countered.

“Someone has to watch out for you,” Hendry murmured, repeating Alistair’s exact words from earlier. 

Alistair scoffed and turned his attention to the pinball machine. Its artwork resembled the fairy tales he’d grown up with: a prince rescuing a princess from a castle, a knight riding into battle, a witch laughing over a cauldron. And Alistair’s favorite, the dragon, its mouth open into a snarl–worth one hundred points if the pinball struck its fangs. 

Hendry sighed and changed the subject. “I had a dream today–”

“Typically, one has them at night–”

“While napping in the graveyard.” Despite his charm and freckled nose, Hendry was still a Lowe. He had a little villain in him. The Lowe family graveyard was his favorite place, full of vague, unnerving epitaphs for those who’d died young–even beyond the tournament, their family had a surprisingly large amount of tragedy in its history. “In the dream, you really were a monster.”

Alistair smiled so wide he nearly spit out his drink. “What did I look like?”

“Oh, you looked the same.”

“Then what made me a monster?”

“You were collecting the spellrings of dead children and hiding them in your wardrobe, cackling and howling about souls trapped inside them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair said. “I’d do something like that now.”

“You know, you should take a page out of that Macaslan girl’s book and try to seem more likable. This tournament isn’t like all the other ones–the curse isn’t a secret anymore. I mean, look at all these tourists! In Ilvernath! If you plan to survive during the tournament, you’ll need alliances with other champions. Partnerships with spellmakers. You’ll need the world’s favor.”

Alistair looked at his brother intensely. Hendry was breaking their unspoken rule not to discuss the tournament, and it wasn’t like him to be so serious. Besides, it didn’t matter that A Tradition of Tragedy had turned Ilvernath’s peculiar red moon and its resulting bloodshed into a global scandal. The Lowes still had their pick of spellmakers lining up to give Alistair their wares. Misfortune had a way of finding those who defied the Lowe family–their grandmother’s notorious curses made certain of that.

“Are you worried about me?” Alistair asked.

“Of course.”

“The family isn’t.”

“I’m your big brother. I have to worry about you.”

Alistair’s first instinct was, as always, to crack a joke. But confident or not, it was difficult to find humor in the tournament. 

Kill or be killed. It was a somber affair. 

Alistair’s fear wasn’t for his life, but for his mind. Even the most villainous Lowe victors left the tournament changed, broken. But Alistair refused to meet such a fate. No matter how brutal, how terrible he’d need to act, he couldn’t let himself care. Not about the other champions. Not about his soul.

He needed to become the most villainous of them all.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Used with permission from Tor Teen, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates; a trade division of Macmillan Publishers. 

All of Us Villains is set to publish in fall 2021, with the concluding book in the duology coming in fall 2022.

The post Tor Teen Acquires Dark YA Fantasy All of Us Villains (Exclusive) appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3hvvmKK

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Alright everyone, place your bets on the clumsiest thing that Alistair is gonna do in All of Our Demise. Personally, I don't think the book will end before he breaks an important spellring by dropping it or trips and falls down a full set of stairs, preferably while Gavin is watching.

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