Someone sucked in a breath. "Gods, Marlow."
"What?" Truckenham’s smile was thin as a blade. "You wanted a sacrifice with no ties to trace back to us. I delivered exactly that: transplant, fresh off the bus from Chicago. No one even knows he's in Bellwether." His eyes glinted in the candlelight. "That's why I get the majority share. Because I do what needs to be done."
The bound man—little more than a boy, Goldie realized with sickening dread—made a muffled sound behind his gag. His blue eyes fixed on Truckenham with pure hatred.
A woman’s voice cut across the words. "Enough. Let's finish this before someone comes looking."
The seven figures joined hands around the salt circle. The Grove Core itself seemed to lean in, branches creaking overhead like the ribs of some vast, listening creature. Their voices rose in unison, words that seemed to sink into the earth itself, each syllable heavy with intent:
"By blood we claim, by name we bind,
Our souls and shares are all aligned.
This sacred grove bends to our will,
Its power, ours, to tap and till."
The bound young man tried to speak through his gag, his muffled protests growing more desperate. The sound only made the chanting louder, more insistent, as if they were trying to drown out his humanity.
"From this death springs rightful claim;
We seal this pact with blood and name.
Let root and stone bear witness true?—
The Holdings bound to chosen few."
The Grove Core recoiled. Ancient oaks twisted their branches away from the circle, bark splitting with sounds like screams. Leaves withered and fell like tears. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the candlelight, something howled, as if the earth itself screamed in pain.
Truckenham stepped forward into the circle's heart, and a knife gleamed in his steady hand. Unlike the others, he showed no fear, only cold determination. The blade caught the candlelight, casting dancing reflections on the salt lines that burned like molten silver.
The boy’s blue eyes fixed on the knife, then on Truckenham’s face. Behind the gag, his breathing came in sharp, panicked gasps. He tried to speak, to plead, but only desperate sounds escaped.
Truckenham knelt beside him, almost gentle, positioning the blade with practiced precision. "Nothing personal, friend," he murmured, his tone conversational. "But this land is worth more than your life. More than all our lives, really."
His free hand brushed a strand of blond, sweat-soaked hair from the boy’s forehead in a mockery of comfort. "And you? You'll be part of something truly important. The foundation of everything."
The boy’s muffled scream built behind the gag, his body thrashing against the ropes with renewed desperation.
Truckenham’s grip on the knife never wavered. "At least try to die with some dignity."
The knife descended in a slow arc and tore across the boy’s throat. Blood welled from the fresh wound, dark as wine in the candlelight, pooling and spilling into the carefully carved salt lines.
A white-hot light burst from the circles in cascading waves, and the earth convulsed. Roots erupted through the soil, writhing and grasping, pulling the boy’s fading form down into the ground. The branches in the trees wailed with splintering agony, wood crying out as though it, too, were being torn apart.
One of the conspirators fell to his knees, retching. Another backed away from the circle, face white with terror. The fire in the sconces flared, casting wild shadows that seemed to move independently, reaching toward them with accusatory fingers.
"It's done," a woman whispered, her voice hollow and stripped of triumph. The words fell flat in the suddenly oppressive air, where exhaustion and creeping dread curled around them like smoke.
The vision shattered, throwing Goldie back into her own body with a gasp. She was on her knees, her hand still pressed againstthe Thornfather's arm, tears streaming down her face as the aftershocks of borrowed terror and grief ripped through her.
Splice was there in an instant, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her back against the solid warmth of his chest.
"They killed him," she sobbed, the words ragged and torn from her throat. "That boy... he was so young, Splice. He was so scared."
Splice's hand came to rest over hers, his fingers pressing against the Thornfather's cool bark. The new connection between them hummed, a fragile, shimmering thread.
He frowned, and Goldie felt a flicker of his focus through their bond, a sense of him trying to grasp something that was already dissolving.
