Falon stood on the opposite end, bearing a small dagger resting upon a white cushion, its silver blade catching what little light there was. His demeanor hadshifted, his smile replaced by a solemn expression in respect for the ritual about to take place.
“Come, kneel, Sainte Nytestorm,” he said.
I followed tight on his heels, and his shoulders tensed as he realized I trailed him, but he refrained from rebuking me in front of Nothar’s priest.
Falon’s gaze flicked toward me, signaling for Sainte to halt by the expansive fire pit. I responded with a slight nod as he lowered himself to his knees, facing the radiant embers. The coals stirred with his movement, their dance catching my attention as they seemed to pulse with an eerie life of their own.
Falon approached with small careful strides, and I stepped forward, holding my hand out. Sainte’s cool stare practically burned into me as the priest dipped into a bow and offered the pillow.
Ignoring my Valahant’s fury, I picked up the dagger. Its weight surprised me—solid steel adorned with an engraving that depicted wolves in pursuit of a stag. The gemstone eyes of the creatures glinted vividly, while red rubies trailed from the stag’s wound, leaving a trail for the beasts to follow.
The blade’s brutality was evident, its glint reflecting the ember’s light. Despite its short length, about a hand and a half, its sharpness was unmistakable. I knew I had to be cautious to avoid cutting too deep.
Without hesitation, I jerked the naked blade across my left palm. Blood welled up, surprising me with the rush before any discomfort set in. As the pain intensified, I hissed, dropping the bloody dagger to the pillow and turning my attention to the fire and Sainte. He made no move to assist me, his expression a mask of indifference that overlaid the swirling irritation in his eyes.
“Spill your blood into the flames,” Falon said, voice soft, yet commanding. “Let it consume your mortality, leaving only Nothar’s divinity to shine through.”
I approached, extending my fist over the embers, letting a flood of crimson spill out. The coals hissed and spat, before a sudden roar of flames burst out. I jerked back before the flare could scorch my skin.
“Stand behind your Valahant. Lean on him, as he is your support.”
Nervous, I licked my lips and moved over Sainte’s legs, positioning myself with my feet on either side of his calves, then placed my hands on his broad shoulders. I winced as my open wound protested against the fabric beneath my palm. Both my wrist, marked by Togamar, and now this cut by Nothar’s dagger, stung with each movement.
At this rate, I feared I might run out of limbs before my duel with Adastrus even began
“Repeat after me,” Falon commanded.
My gaze shifted from the top of Sainte’s head to the flames, which greedily consumed my blood, its heat cracking and flickering in the pit.
“Nothar, the Most High, Father of Wynter and King of Godkind. I, Sainte Nytestorm, Valahant to Elspeth, Second Born of Veiled King Vardis, call you from the Hunt.”
He echoed the words, his voice deep and resonant. With each breath, his shoulders rose and fell, and crimson stained the fabric beneath my touch.
“I seek the face of our father. I ask that the King of Gods receive the plea of his own blood across the Veil. Hear me. Answer me,” Sainte concluded, his voice carrying a weight of determination.
The fire died.
The flames didn’t just fade; they winked out of existence with a pop, leaving the embers black and cold. The sudden darkness and chill sent a shiver through me, and I looked to Falon, whose figure was now a silhouette against the lantern-lit wall.
“Don’t move, Princess,” he said.
Sainte stiffened, his shoulder muscles tensing like a rock beneath my touch. I heard his sharp intake of breath.
“If you remove your hands, you will sever his connection.”
I tightened my grip, hoping he could feel my presence wherever he was.
Togamar told me Notharwantedto see him.
Nothing would happen…
He grunted and pitched forward slightly, as if struck, and I held onto him tighter, ignoring the pain in my hand.
Surely the gods would not beat him as well.
“He is beyond the Veil, whether Nothar has answered him, or another. If you sever the connection, his body and soul will be torn in two.”
He trembled beneath me, and doubts crept into my mind about the wisdom of this course of action.
