The moment her blood struck the mixture, mingling with Syrena’s, the contents blazed with both gold and silver light.
Azarian looked relieved as that vicious grin crept back up Syrena’s lips.
“Now, both of you take hold of the chalice,” Azarian instructed.
The sisters reached for the vessel in tandem before lifting ittogether, raising it toward the moon. The garden fell into an eerie stillness.
“Now repeat after me,” Azarian said. “I give you my soul in shadow and silence. In blood and flesh. I bind my breath to fate and to the soul who drinks with me.”
Syrena sucked in a shuddering breath, chills rushing along her spine as she began to taste her vengeance.
And then in unison, the twins repeated, “I give you my soul in shadow and silence. In blood and flesh. I bind my breath to fate and to the soul who drinks with me.”
“By the silt of the deep and marrow of gods. Let what is torn be tethered. Let what is lost be shared.” Azarian’s voice radiated with power as he spoke the ancient rite, and Esmyra and Syrena repeated his words once more.
Syrena’s pulse thrashed in her ears, her vision blackening at the edges as the magic took its course.
“Now, this last chant, you will include your goddess names, and repeat ‘I give my strength. I give my skin. To those who drink the blood of my blood. If I fall weak, may she rise. If she falters, let me soar.’ And then you may drink once the chalice answers your call.”
Syrena repeated his words without hesitation. And then their eyes were on Esmyra.
She could see the doubt flickering in Esmyra’s eyes, perhaps even a little fear as her consciousness continued to try and push through. The tiny crack in her armor was beautiful in its weakness.
“Let her taste fear. Let her drown in it,” Naerysa hissed.
Because when Esmyra falls, it won’t just be her soul that breaks—it will be hers and Kaelypso’s all at once.
“Do it, Esmyra.” Syrena demanded.
“I give my strength. I give my skin. To those who drink the blood of my blood. If Kaelypso falls weak, may Naerysa rise. If Naerysa falters, let Kaelypso soar.”
Syrena’s smile curled wickedly from across the altar.
Esmyra stared down at the bone-carved cup before lifting it. Therim brushed her lips, and then she tipped her head back and drank. Her throat bobbed, and a tremor passed through her body.
Then she passed the chalice to Syrena.
The carved runes were now stained crimson from their blood, glowing faintly, while the liquid inside possessed a dark, almost black shimmer. She sucked in a sharp breath and took one long, slow sip, not letting a single, remaining drop go to waste.
The merlights and flames of the surrounding candles all lit in a vibrant surge.
The taste hit her like a wave. It was sharp and electric, like salt and metal and lightning. Her heart convulsed. Her throat burned. Every vein in her body throbbed. Something ancient and foreign slithered down her spine like a current catching hold.
It was like drowning yet breathing in the richest air all at once.
The cup fell from her hands, thudding softly into the moss. Her knees hit the ground next—at the same time as Esmyra’s, the ritual’s magic not taking place until both souls drank from the cup.
Then agony ran wild through her, blooming like fire beneath her skin.
Syrena cried out and clutched her wrist as it burned, but not just on the surface. It was deeper—bone-deep—as if something was being carved into the essence of her very soul.
She watched, gasping, as a mark seared into existence. First, a shimmer beneath the skin, then glowing lines erupting across her flesh in brilliant gold and black.
Two long serpentine dragons coiled around each other, their scaled bodies twisting in opposite directions like a mirrored dance. Between them, floating at the center, was a glowing sun and a dark crescent moon. Symbols of the light and the dark. Of day and night. Of the surface and the depths.
It was then Syrena realized the dragons represented her and Esmyra.
She couldn’t breathe.
