They chant the motto to the high heavens, faster, faster, faster until it runs in an endless loop, a timeless cycle that makes me think I’m dying.
It sure feels like I am.
I don’t know how I’m not screaming. Once the molten heat of the brand collides with my inner wrist, I suppress a sob. It lodges behind the newly grown orange tree that’s taking up a permanent residence in my throat.
The brand might only be the width of a nickel, but it feels the size of a watermelon.
My skin sizzles as it cooks and chars beneath the terrifyingly hot metal.
My sweat evaporates so close to the searing heat.
The stench, fuck, the stench. If I didn’t want to puke earlier, the urge is three times as strong now.
I can feel lightheadedness overtake me. Stars take up a prominent place in the corners of my eyes, dancing and jittering as I fight unconsciousness.Every gallon of blood in my body feels as if it’s centered around that brand, bubbling and boiling as the molten metal collides with it.
The whirring in my ears is louder than the crowd, who still sound like a wave of skittering roaches scuttling over a tiled floor. Finally, eventually,thankfully,he tugs on the branding iron and releases me.
And somehow, the pain is so much worse.
The slight tear as the metal rips my flesh has me howling inside.
“Sister, discard of the traitor’s ring in here,” the leader orders me, and I hear the softest clink, but it doesn’t register where I had to put it. Not in my dazed state.
What I don’t know, until Wynter tells me later, is that I just kneltthere. Not a sound uttered. Not a tear dropped.Only moving on command.
I barely hear her soft whimpers as she accepts her branding. The stench is back, though, and it’s unbearable.
When the ceremony is complete, the Secretary of Defense steps forward and splashes water onto the wounds from a chalice.
I glance down at it through eyes that feel as if they don’t belong to me.
As I wonder if it’s some kind of holy water, the main man, whose voice suddenly comes to me—Brother Alaric from the first initiation night—lifts a book from the altar.
A susurration darts around the audience.
“Traitor Aoric VI allowed this to fall into the hands of the police.”
The susurration turns into an outraged roar.
“This,” Alaric informs us, “is the main reason for his death. The brand is secret. But what lies within these pages is for no one’s eyes but a Veronian’s.
“It is only thanks to the swift actions of Aoric III that this copy was spared from scrutiny.” He drops the book into the special fire-pot.
There’s deadly silence as it goes up in flames.
Even my dazed eyes widen when red smoke oozes from it.
“Traitor, traitor, traitor!”
The men chant the word over and over and over again.
Alaric lifts a hand.
Immediately, silence falls.Only the whispers of the crowd’s breathing can be heard. It tiptoes through my nerve endings, growing louder and louder until they might as well be shouting at me. It’s a tidal wave of sound. A tsunami of inhales and exhales that trip me into sensory overload.
My eyelids flutter as I force them open.
The urge to cringe is strong. The urge to beg them tobreathe quieterhovers on the tip of my tongue.
