“You know I never indulge in a bit of light choking unless it’s thoroughly deserved.” He smirked, avoiding giving words to our sad, sad truth. We had but eight cycles left to steal a few small moments before our bloods were demanded.
“What did Caelius say to warranta bit of light chokingthis time?”
Demetri sniffed, cheeks turning a distinct shade ofI’ve-been-caughtred. “Oh, just being an irksome bastard.” Making to stand, he kicked at a pile of ash, disrupting it with the tip of his boot.
“Demetri?”
Eyes cautious, the markers of shame dented his brow.
“Well?” I resisted the urge to place both hands on my hips, already hearing the ghost of his accusations—“Gods, darling, so like your mother.”
“Just the usual taunts about how I’ll remain, ah, fuck…what was it? ‘A cockless eunuch who will die a virgin and never know’—his words, not mine, darling girl—‘the warm embrace of a cunt.’”
“By the First.” I wrinkled my nose, returning to prod at the embers.
Laurels, like us, selected to die by the Dendralis from twenty to thirty winters, were closely monitored in our enclaves, unchaperoned mingling between the opposite sexes strictly forbidden. “We must safeguard your moral dignity,” Druid Capriche lectured every so often. “You are to observe the disciplines of flesh until your offering, as a way to honour Him. To show obedience to His whims.”
Honour, discipline, obedience, more often than not, were just practicality dressed in fancier clothes. I reasoned the truth was simpler: it would mean no parentless children to run amuck in the streets, left to be cared for and fed.
“Caelius’ words, Ashara. Not mine. Never mine.” His playfulness turned solemn as he threaded his hands in mine, sitting beside me on our rug. “You know I’ll honour our promise.”
We locked eyes, the echo of what we promised that day hovering between us like a ghost: we would spend our final night together. Ineveryway.
It was a well-known secret that the final pilgrimage for laurels could be somewhat…liberating, for those permitted to have reached adulthood. Inside the Grand Templum, the rulebook changed.What need was there to deny matters of the flesh when all would be carrion come the morn?
I’d do it now, if he’d allow it. Here, on the floor, next to a dwindling fire and amongst the ashes. Demetri would say no; he always said no, not with the penance afforded to those theyinquisitioned. Not only would my offering be enacted then and there, druid-ordained date be damned, but they’d take it from me first, the organ we’d supposedlydefiled. My hand cradled my lower stomach, palm pressing over what would never swell round with a babe. Not that I’d want to bring another soul into this world; not when its creator was so eager to demand it straight back.
Pulling the sewing supplies from my pocket, I reached for his arm. “Let me fix it.”
He gave it to me willingly, eyes fixed on my face. Rotating his palm, I nestled it in my lap, where it sat like a tamed dove, the weight heavy but a comfort. I threaded the needle on the first try, half-blind in the flickering light.
“Impressive,” he praised, flashing me the points of his canines. Gods, he kissed like a heathen. I’d have one last one before we went our separate ways. Just one more before the next Seventh Day. Stitching a loop into the torn ridge of his cuff, I jerked at the crunching of gravel. My hand slipped, piercing his skin.
Demetri didn’t wince, but his tanned face blanched in the firelight, his wide eyes fixated on something unknown behind me. I stole a quick breath, not wishing to look but certain I’d have to. Closing my eyes, I memorised the familiar feel of his hand in mine, knowing,knowingit was about to be torn from my hold.
Behind us, three acolytes loomed, their shorn skulls gleaming the colour of bone under the moon.
May the Blood God have mercy on us both, even if He’d given none before.
Chapter three
Ashara
The Inquisition
Consume not the Blood God’s mercies like honey cakes in Midsummer’s warmth, but the last crumbs of stale breadamidst the cruelest of winters. -3:22–23 - Book of Dendralis
Eyes down, breath held, we crossed the threshold, passing through the Doors of Judgement and into the heart of the chappellum. The smallest of hoots, so soft I may have imagined it, pulled my eyes from my slippers to the doors. The owl was alive, but barely, its chest heaving, head hanging limply, eyes dull. Blood marred its tawny feathers, the red darkest around the base of the iron spikes pinning its wings.
I cursed myself for looking.
Its wide orbs tracked me as I disappeared into the inner arched entry. I should’ve known better. Ididknow better than to beg a god, even the Other, for mercy. None of us would find it here. Perhaps if my hands were free, I could somehow manage the kindness of driving a stake through its heart. I wriggled my aching wrists, stretching the binds. The acolytes had bound them tight, the coarse rope digging into my bones, rubbing the skin raw.
It was the first thing they did: cut a length of hemp from their belts to ensure our compliance. “Acolytes…nasty little things,” Demetri always insisted. “Their tongues so far up the arseholes of druids, it’s no wonder they spew so much shit.”
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, letting it glide along the ridges of my teeth. It felt heavy, like lead, swelling so thick I could choke.
Would Capriche deign to tear it from me? Would it hang on the Doors of Judgement alongside the owl?
