A fire burns in a low pit in the middle of the room, the steady crackle and hiss of logs the only sound I can hear other than my thundering heartbeat. Several torches hang in sconces, their flickering firelight casting ominous shadows on the walls.
An earthy scent lingers in the air, mingling with the smell of burning wood. This place is strange, unlike anywhere I’ve ever been, and it’s quiet. Unnervingly so. No one is talking or moving. Every person, young and old, is staring at me, and I am not enjoying being the center of their attention.
Gabriel isn’t here, which means . . .
Well, actually, I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be good. Sweat coats my hands, and panic spreads through me. A fist squeezes my lungs.
Where could he be?
Footsteps come from behind me. They’re soft, barely more than whispers against the stone floor, but the air shifts.
One by one, the warriors turn their gazes away. Everyone, that is, except the angry woman. She’s glaring at me, and I’m so over being stared at that I return her venomous expression.
“So this is the Blessed.” The words are a quiet murmur, coming from my left, and I angle my head to see the speaker.
My eyes widen. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but it wasn’t a short, elderly woman hunched over a cane, hobbling towards me. She’s wearing a long lilac dress that brushes the ground, swishing with every movement.
Sleeves fall past her hands; her tanned skin is wrinkled with age. White hair with pale green highlights streaking through it falls in an intricate plait to her waist, and three golden hoops hang in each ear.
She is beautiful, but that’s not why I sit up straight, ignoring the pain that shoots through my bound wrists. Suddenly, my thirst is of no consequence. I barely remember that I’m gagged, and my panic at not having seen Gabe dulls from a roar to a steady throb at the back of my mind.
I lean forward as far as my restraints allow, staring at the woman before me and the glowing violet swirl sitting prominently at the center of her throat. She’s Marked.
She’s fuckingMarked.
My heart stutters. I can’t breathe. I can’t look away.
She’s Marked, and she’shere.
This woman, whoever she is, isn’t dead or bleeding out on the floor of Esyn’s temple. Nor is she being attacked by an evil king who has it out for her.
Somehow, she avoided the slaughter and made it past her twentieth year.
Somehow, she’s just like me.
I stare at the jeweled Mark for so long, trying to make sure it isn’t a figment of my imagination, that my eyes cross. I blink several times, and it’s still there. I haven’t hallucinated it; I’m not losing my mind. Her Mark doesn’t look like the stickers the priestesses wear—there’s a shine to it that cannot be faked. Like mine and Kadyn’s, it glows as brightly as a star.
My mind is fucking blown, and I can barely string my thoughts together. How is this possible? How did she get here? How did she avoid being Given?
The woman circles me, her green eyes locked on my Mark, and I get the distinct impression she is inspecting me. For what, I’m not sure.
After several minutes, the woman reaches for my cheek, her bony fingers outstretched.
I flinch. I can’t help it. She may be an elderly woman, but I’m bound to a chair, my hands are tied behind my back, and I’m gagged.
She freezes, her hand hovering a few inches from my face, and shakes her head, a frown tugging on her lips. “Don’t worry, child. I will not hurt you.”
The way I’ve been treated over the past few days would beg otherwise, but I’m not in a position to say anything.
She must see something in my eyes because she exhales and looks over my shoulder. “For Esyn’s sake, Atticus, come here.”
There’s a shuffling behind me, and then a warrior is at my right. His golden hair, longer on the top and shaved on the sides, is tied in a knot on top of his head. A jagged pink scar runs down the length of his right cheek, and another peeks through the collar of his black tunic.
“Ma’am?” Atticus’s voice is rough.
The elderly woman huffs. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Why is she trussed up like this? Can’t you see you’re scaring the girl?”
I’m a woman, not a girl, but this isn’t the moment to debate semantics.
