He continues to speak in that eerie dialect, but it’s starting to sound more like a chant than unknown words at this point. If evil had a sound, this would be it.
The tip of the knife presses deeper, digging into the soft flesh and bringing forth a reluctant wince from my lips. A drop ofblood appears, and I know without a doubt his pupils are fully blown under his hood.
This doesn’t feel like a ceremony. It feels like an execution.
Every muscle in my body tightens as I clench my teeth to keep from crying out in pain. I won’t give him that. Fuck him and every single person who thought I’d never make it this far. I made it. And I’ll be damned if I give them anything more to take from me.
Revulsion coats my spine as his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, almost as if he’s getting extreme satisfaction from the pain being inflicted.
He probably is.
Sick fuck.
Without removing the pressure from his grip, he makes a long gash and swiftly flips my wrist over, allowing the blood to flow into the bottom of the basin. The drops hit the metal like a farewell to my independence.
My teeth sink into my lip as he digs his fingers into the sides of the cut, encouraging more blood to be produced. As if I’m not already giving enough.
The chanting continues as my eyes grow heavy, and dizziness washes over me. Between the loss of blood, the diminishing adrenaline rush, and the odd verbiage he’s spewing, I’m feeling weak. And so, so tired. I let my eyes flutter closed. If I can just rest for a minute, the pain will subside, and I’ll feel better. I can regain my bearings.
I hear the rustle of a cloak. “It’s too soon for that. You’ll miss what’s to come,” the professor whispers in a foreboding tone.
The coolness of damp fabric being draped over my fresh injury forces me to pry my eyes open, the heaviness making it difficult. Something sweet and spicy hits my nostrils.
Yarrow.
A favorite of healers to treat battle wounds.
Without further ado, he pushes me back toward my seat and calls up the next willing participant. Finnley’s hood is pushed back just enough that I can see the anger marking his features as he walks by, along with something else in his stormy eyes. I’m too mentally tapped to pinpoint what, but it’s there.
There’s more to these unknown words being spoken than they’re letting on. I feel as if I’ve been drugged. My head lolls for a moment, vision swimming in slow motion. It’s as if I’m witnessing the remainder of the ceremony through haze-filled eyes.
I struggle to watch Finnley go through the ritual, but time isn’t moving correctly anymore. One second, he’s walking toward the goblet, I blink, and he’s returning to his seat. I drag my uncooperative eyes to him to offer support in any way I can, even if it’s an understanding look, but he’s staring straight ahead.
I accept at the moment that we’re all fucked. I give up on trying to communicate with him. Instead, I preserve my remaining energy.
The ritual concludes in what seems like rapid succession after everyone has provided their offering. I’m sure the goblet is now close to overflowing with our “lifeblood and consent.” The robbed fiend turns back toward the audience, his form swaying in my vision. My fingers twitch uselessly, and my limbs feel boneless.
“We have our offering. Now the removals begin,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “At attention!” he orders in a stern voice while clapping his hands in front of his face. “Weapons ready.”
Weapons ready?
The fuck?
I vigorously rub my eyes, trying to clear them, but everything is still so fuzzy.
Finnley attempts to stand but loses his balance and crashes back into his chair. Muffled curses fly out of his mouth, but he doesn’t attempt to stand again.
My eyes dart to a hooded Veil walking closer to the dais as the rest spread out through the hall in strict military formation. The Noctryns appear to walk more casually toward random places.
I follow the Veil’s approach with weary eyes as he makes his way toward us. The surrounding candlelight bleeds into gold halos, and spots dance in my vision. His steps are predatory, and he’s heading directly toward me. His head is bowed, and his hood is pulled low enough to maintain anonymity.
A throwing axe rests in his hand.
Without thinking, I reach for Finnley. The moment my fingers brush against the side of his palm, an axe lands directly at my feet. I jerk my hand back and look in the direction it came from. The Veil’s head is tilted to the side in a menacing way as if daring me to reach for his hand again.
I reach for Finnley’s hand again becausefuckhim.
One second, I have a grip on his pinky finger, and the next, I’m being hauled to my feet, spun around, and my arms pinned securely behind my back. The room immediately spins on its axis, causing my stomach to do somersaults.
