Page 173 of Blade of the Nightking

“Did it work?” I asked impatiently, though I already knew the answer.

"No." The word was flat, unequivocal.

He scanned the page again. “Endure the trials and be judged thrice. Then drink deep to pay the price.” His eyes darted to the well. “Nothing happened. We haven't been judged. There was no trial.”

I stared down into the endless pit. “Then what are we missing?”

He narrowed his eyes at the text but didn't respond. I circled the well until I spotted an old bucket resting beside it, its handle hooked over a rusted iron peg driven into the stone.

"Should we try drinking first?" I asked, gesturing toward it.

He crossed the chamber, seized the bucket, and gave the rope a quick inspection. The pulley beside the well looked nearly as ancient as the temple itself. It was a miracle the whole thing didn't crumble to dust the moment he touched it.

The pulley let out a rusty squeal as he lowered the bucket out of sight. Down and down it went until, after what felt like an eternity, a faint splash echoed up from below. He set his feet and began hauling it back.

Rìan heaved the bucket onto the rim of the well. Together, we peered inside. The water was cloudy and tinged brown. A sour smell drifted up from it—damp earth mingled with something faintly rotten that made my nose wrinkle.

“I take it back. I don't think we should drink this after all.”

“Try it.”

“You first.” We glared at each other.

His nostrils flared, but he relented. Cupping his hands, he scooped up a small amount of water and drank. His lips pressed into a thin line as he swallowed before turning to me expectantly.

Sighing, I dipped my hands in the bucket and took a cautious sip. The moment the water touched my tongue, I nearly gagged. Somehow, it tasted even worse than it smelled. I swallowed with considerable effort, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and then, when Rìan wasn't looking, scrubbed my tongue against the fabric.

We waited.

Again—nothing.

Just a foul taste coating my mouth.

Rìan muttered a curse and yanked the paper from his pocket again. He paced the chamber, reading as he walked, his eyes moving over the same lines again and again as though the answer might suddenly reveal itself. “This doesn't make sense,” he grumbled.

Another half hour passed before Rìan's patience finally snapped. He crushed the prophecy in his fist and hurled it to the floor, then dragged a hand through his hair.

I snatched the paper up before he could change his mind and slunk down against the side of the well, the stone snagging at my clothes. Carefully, I smoothed the page flat and squinted down at the words. I read them slowly aloud, trying to make sense of them. What had we done wrong?

“Three gates sealed in ages old,

Long forgotten, power cold.

The missing bone will break the state,

Riven by Seven, carved of fate.

Open flesh, unmake the thread,

Each must yield the first blood shed.

“Nonsense,” Rìan snapped, interrupting me.

I glanced up.

He was still prowling around the chamber, like a wolf forced into too small a cage. Every so often, silver flashed through his eyes, a stark reminder of the power straining beneath his skin.

His gaze snagged on the canopy overhead, visible through the collapsed roof. “Daylight is fading. We need to go.”