Esmyra’s eyes were unblinking, her lips parted. She gave a subtle nod.
Syrena straightened. “Good. Now you will follow my lead and do everything as told,” she instructed, pulling Esmyra to her feet.
She turned toward the marble path winding deeper into the gardens, and without hesitation, Esmyra trailed after her.
Azarian stepped forward then, one hand holding a bowl of herbs while the other held a chalice carved from bone, its surface etched with runes. They met him halfway to the middle, now standing in the center of the ceremonial altar.
Esmyra’s face was unnervingly still as she stood across from Syrena. Her gaze was fixed forward, her body absent of any movement save for the soft flutter of her hair in the wind as her tattoos cast her in a subtle, teal glow.
It made her look like some delicate painted statue. A depiction of a goddess instead of one in the flesh.
All it will take is one drink, one chant, and you’ll be exactly where I need you to be.Syrena’s thoughts curled around her mind like smoke.
Her eyes slid to the chalice, realizing everything she’d been working toward would all finally be over soon. A part of her,however, wanted to savor the unraveling, to watch Esmyra’s awareness bend and break beneath her hand now that she could be compelled.
But tonight was for sealing the bond, for making sure her sister could never again slip through her fingers.
The altar between them was draped in black silk, haloed in the cold light of the moon. Syrena watched as Azarian placed the bone-carved chalice on the small table, and her brows furrowed when she peered inside the cup. A thick mixture revealed itself in the subtle merlights hovering above them.
“It’s necessary for the ritual,” Azarian started, observing her. “Black silt dredged from the deepest trenches of the ocean, where no sunlight has ever reached, and salt crystals ground with herbs from my apothecary to tie it all together.”
“And the ingredient to activate it?” Syrena asked.
Azarian grinned as a single dark tear, resembling blood, slid down his cheek. He lifted the chalice to his chin and allowed that tear to fall into the mixture. “Taken care of.” He winked, blinking away the remaining darkness from the tear staining his eye.
Syrena’s brow lifted. Azarian had been somewhat secretive regarding everything necessary for the ritual, telling her it couldn’t be activated without a minor sacrifice from him in order for the magic to work.
“A tear?” she challenged.
Azarian nodded. “Indeed, My Goddess. It’s a symbol of Malya’s power. I will explain later, when time is no longer of the essence. Now please, both of you step up so we may begin.”
A calmness settled into Syrena as both sisters did as instructed. They each approached slowly in tandem, their dresses trailing behind them and gliding over the grass.
Azarian nodded to her. “You know what must be done.”
Syrena turned to Esmyra and lifted her hand, the soft tip of her fingers elongating into sharp black talons. “You will follow my lead and mimic everything I do.”
She dragged the edge of a talon across her palm. Blood welled immediately, its dark crimson hue shimmering before she held it overthe cup. Her blood fell into the onyx mixture like drops of flame. It hissed, spiraled, and smoked, reacting instantly as the concoction fused.
Esmyra lifted her hand as ordered, allowing her own talons to slip free. Staring down, her eyes locked on the scar across her palm. It was the scar she’d received from slicing her hand with the blade only weeks before, when they were reclaiming their divinity.
It was as though recognition stirred in her mind, tugging insistently at the edges of her subconscious.
Syrena sensed the shift in her immediately. The thread between them, once taut and thrumming with her control, wavered. It was subtle, but the looseness in the tether made her stomach tighten. The sensation was like water slipping through her fingers, and her magic instinctively reached to catch it before it fell away completely.
Her heart gave one sharp beat.Not yet.
“Look at me, Esmyra,” Syrena commanded softly, her voice curling through the night air, desperately clutching her twin’s mind.
Syrena stepped closer, her power coiling through her words as her irises dilated to reinforce that hold.
“There’s nothing there worth remembering,” she murmured, letting her magic pulse through each syllable, pushing away the scar’s meaning until it became no more than a mark her flesh bore.
Esmyra blinked once, her breath evening out, and the thread pulled tight once more.
Syrena let the tension settle, the satisfaction of control returning like a steady heartbeat. Only then did she say, “Continue.”
Esmyra nodded once, then sliced her talon through the heel of her palm, directly over her scar. Blood welled, and she lifted her hand over the cup to let it fall.
