Her arm dropped to her side, the sage still smoldered, trailing smoke in ribbons toward the floor.
“It’s not her,” she said.
The words barely registered. My mind was still caught in the voice, in the fire, in the bowl that had blackened and cracked down the center.
“What?”
She looked at me. And I swear, she lookedthroughme. Or worse,intome.
“It’s you.” she said.
The air dropped ten degrees. A cold, invisible hand wrapped around the back of my neck and stayed there.
“What do you mean?” I could only stare at her.
Shadows swelled at the corners of the room, thick and clinging. The candles sputtered low, their flames choking on something in the air.
“Give me your hands,” she said, stepping forward with sudden urgency. Her grip was ice. It crawled up my arms like frostbite laced with teeth, Burrowing into the nerves beneath my skin.
“What is it?” I gasped.
“I’m not sure,” she breathed. “But the gods are… louder around you.”
Then, without warning, she reached into her robes and pulled out the curved blade. Silver. Small. Thin. The candlelight kissed its edge for a single second, then she slashed it across my palm, and pain cut through me, sharp, clean, hot.
A strangled sound caught in my throat as blood surged up and spilled over, dripping freely into the black bowl below. The white crystals inside shimmered, and my blood sank into them, almost like they weredrinkingmy blood.
The seer grabbed two of the blood-drenched crystals and clutched them, in her hands. Her eyes fell shut as her lips began to move again. The same language as before. Old. Raw. Not made for human mouths. The sound grated against the air.
The room leaned inward. The walls. The floor. The ceiling. All of it bent toward the bowl. She stirred once. Flinched. Like she was waking something that didn’t want to be woken.
Then she froze.
Her shoulders stiffened and her face twisted, not in confusion. In refusal.
“I can’t,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the edges. “She’s so young.” A pause. She? Was she she talking about me? Licia? “I won’t.”
Her eyes snapped open.
“You need to leave,” she said. Her voice was frayed, unraveling at the seams.
“What?” I mouthed.
Her eyes dropped to the blood. To the bowl. To the faint pink glow now seeping through the cracks of the table beneath it.
“I can’t help you,” she said, backing away from me. “You need to go. Now.”
“But you said the gods told you to help me—”
“Not all gods are good,” she snapped. “And I’ve learned when not to obey them.” I could feel what she felt, an overwhelming sensation of fear. Of terror.
“What did you see?” I pushed. “Yousawsomething—tell me what it was!”
“You need toleave,” she begged. She didn’t raise her voice, but it hit me like a slap. Her hands were trembling.
She was afraid.
Ofme.
