No.
Maxim wouldn’t willingly offer himself up as a sacrifice. Even if he wants me to be a Veronian. So, this can’t be about murder, just control? Leverage?
“Stand beside those who’ll shed their blood for you. As we pass around the room, we’ll invoke the age-old contract between pledges and the society.”
My snarky brain translates that as a fancy way of describing an NDA. But mostly, I’m relieved that I have some snark left because that whole “shedding their blood” act is one I don’t want to commit.
While I wanted to strangle him earlier, I like Maxim’s blood in his body, thank you very much.
“Don’t worry. You only sign in my blood,” he murmurs in a voice so low I barely hear him.
I allow my shoulders to sink a hairsbreadth in relief.
“They’re making everyone complicit,” he continues as the first Gaul is approached.
A hooded man holds out a stone tablet that another brother places a piece of parchment on top of.
“Sign here,” the first entreats.
The Gaul picks up the blade, snags his inkpot’s hand, then slices his palm. Immediately, chatters start from the back and sides of the room, making me jump.
“They’re watching. Slice my chest—over my heart. It’s important. You’ll look strong,” Maxim instructs in that soundless Russian.
God.
The roaring jeers continue and the Gaul in front hunches his shoulders.
I’m guessing he’s a legacy who knows he’s failed.
Though, why his parent didn’t warn him…
I know this shit’s supposed to be secret, butthatsecret? From one legacy to another?
Two different brothers approach the Hispania line and they work their way down. We’re four deep so it’s my turn pretty quickly.
I grab the knife and hold Maxim’s eye as I slice across his chest, right through the pink, puckered flesh of that scar in the making.
He doesn’t flinch.
What kind of pain has he endured that this doesn’t hurt him?
His eyes are like ice blocks, but I can tell I did the right thing—even if I now regret how long I made the cut.
Behind me, a roar of delight sounds. Until now, desultory chatter has been the boring soundtrack to this bizarre display as people mostly chose to slice and dice forearms after the first Gaul’s unimpressive performance.
As blood drips down Maxim’s chest, the Veronian next to me insists, “Please sign.”
I lower my hand and let his blood coat one of my fingers. Then, lifting it to the parchment, I make a rudimentary signature. Beside it sits a regular goddamn fountain pen—so theydoknow they exist—and I use that to print my name.
“Clean your finger,” the brother orders.
“Nobody else has?—”
“Do it.”
The only place I have available is my mouth so I suck it between my lips and clean it as best as I can, then hold out my hand to show them it’s blood-free.
Maxim’s jaw clenches but I don’t know why.
