Page 283 of The Edge of Darkness

Perhaps I didn’t find myself worthy of anything at all.

When Remic had said he wanted to join the ritual sacrifice earlier, I panicked. Had I known beforehand that his participation didn’t mean he was the one that was going to be sacrificed, I wouldn’t have lost my shit in front of an entire tent of Dionachs.

He’d simply grinned at me, which was always a sight to behold when it happened. And then he’d explained that he wasn’t volunteering his own life away. Nevertheless, I gave him a thorough scolding as soon as the tent had vacated. I had already been trying my best to hold myself together and get through the meeting after everything that had happened in The Great Wood. I didn’t have the capacity to even think of losing someone else that I cared so dearly for.

After the meeting, the overwhelm finally set in.

Remic had taken me back to Niall’s tent, where I finally broke down. He held me while I cried. And when I didn’t stop crying, he remained, steady as stone.

Seeing me in that state of sadness stressed Niall to no end. He paced, not knowing what to do or how he could take away my pain. Eventually, he stepped away from the tent and let me work through what I needed to in the comfort of Remic’s quiet presence.

Kill them. Kill them all.

My brother’s dying words were all I had been able to think about.

The others had made their rounds, each of them coming to check on me and offer their condolences. Niall had received their sentiments outside the tent on my behalf, while I pulled myself together. I appreciated each of their efforts and consoling words, but none of it would bring my brother back. When they asked if there was anything they could do, I heard Niall tell them to kill as many of our enemies as possible. Promises were given, and boots came and went.

Remic stayed, helping me nurse the headache that was brought on by my crying, then he slipped away to tend to the damage he’d done to his sword.

Niall and Roirdan spent the rest of the day receiving Elandrew’s army, which Breck had successfully rallied just before Killian had shown up to poison him. They were sorting out their section of camp, further to the west.

Meanwhile, Benmoor had also arrived in full force. Thousands of soldiers from the red sands poured into the mountain pass. Silas had come to check on me, and when I was ready to leave the tent, he’d flown me up to a rocky outcrop high above, where we’d perched for a while and watched the numbers grow by the hour.

Night had fallen since then.

The eve of war had come.

Lyceius had given us two days to accept his terms. It turned out that the first day had served as a day for everything but time to even consider it—which we wouldn’t have anyway. And today was for the rest of our allies to arrive. Niall had been right. Meeting with Lyceius had bought us time we desperately needed. It had cost precious lives, the thought of which I couldn’t let myself dwell on now, but it bought us time.

Silas now stood at my side, Niall on the other. The rest of our group surrounded us, and beyond them, Dionachs and warriors from every territory filled the spaces between the trees. All had come to witness the ritual sacrifice that was customary to the witches and Dionachs. And since Torin was clearly waiting until the last possible minute to send her promised witches, Nivelle was the one who would be guiding the ceremony.

An altar had been erected in the midst of the trees, made from two small boulders, and a slab of stone that had been placed on top. Around the platform, the ground had been cleared and swept clean of any debris.

A full moon was rising, its light beaming down through the trees, glistening off mountain stone. The heavy cadence of drums began somewhere in the distance, and every head turned in anticipation. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what I saw rounding the trees took me by surprise.

Blazing torches illuminated the pathway, bathing the surroundings in flickering orange light, casting shadows that pulsed like beings of the night writhing between the trees. The Dionachs who carried them were shirtless and barefoot, their chests and faces painted with marks and runes. The line of fire and wings stretched down the path, each male stepping to the beat of the drum that pounded closer . . . closer . . .

No one spoke. Only the sound of drums punctuated the air.

The Dionachs filed around the stone altar, each of them leaving an opening for the one who proceeded to follow.

The forest grew still—watching, listening.

Pale blonde hair, unbound and flowing . . . An equally pale face, inked with markings, and painted with additional runes . . . Nivelle looked as otherworldly as the witch goddess herself as she glided, barefoot, along the path. Solid white robes swamped her delicate body, and she carried an empty wooden bowl, cradled in her hands like an offering. Behind her, Remic followed. He, too, was shirtless like the other males, with a smattering of runes that had been painted onto his skin. Across his face, four diagonal black lines cut from temple to jaw. The tips of his wings had even been dipped in ink. In his outstretched palms, he held a wicked blade with a curved handle made of what looked to be bone.

I watched him intently, deciphering the intensity he held in his expression.

Something in him had either snapped into or out of place yesterday with Saxon’s arrival, and I couldn’t quite tell which it was—couldn’t tell whether this was some sort of personal atonement, or a way for him to get right with the gods. Either way, in this moment, he looked as foreign to me as the day I first met him.

Torchlight flickered. Shadows danced.

Another male came down the path, but he did not have wings.

Fair skin, braided hair, a scruffy beard . . . pointed ears . . .

He was fae. From Vahrenhall—if I had to guess.

There were no markings on his skin. No black paint. He wore only a long white tunic that dusted the ground as he walked. With his head held high, he followed Remic and Nivelle. Two more Dionachs closed up the end of the procession behind him.