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“It’s what I sent all of you there to complete. Where is your childe and… the other one?”

“‘The other one,’” Carver mutters as he and Eivor crowd around the scrying mirror too.

“Look at all of you,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing in disgust. “What is your proposition, Risna? Speak quick, and speak clearly. You have one chance to convince me.”

“It’s really quite simple, my liege.” I have only seen the grin she’s wearing once before. Bloodshed soon followed. I’m nervous to hear what she might suggest as she says, “Why waste our notorious efforts to kill one little sacrifice when we can slaughter one of the mortal kings?”

He tilts his head cunningly as if he’s considering her plan. “Adelphi’s rite will be one of the most heavily guarded events of this year. You believe you and your kindred are capable of such a feat when the notorious Quill Godrickson couldn’t even end the life of a single sacrifice?”

“Blame that on his code of ethics,” she says, flicking my nose. “I’m certain he won’t have a problem with us spilling peccant blood tonight.”

Mihal’s challenging gaze meets mine. The grin that unfurls across his lips unsettles even me. “I accept this proposition. You and Risna will bring me the mortal king’s head by dawn.”

Chapter 14

RORY

A slight breeze drifts through the air, caressing my nerves one by one.

The Death Moon is bright and full above us, watching carefully over her faithful devotees. Rows upon rows of benches line each side of the petal-laden aisle. The pews are crammed with locals and travelers alike, all of whom buzz with excitement as another witch frolics behind the first, tossing red rose petals over the white ones.

They’re creating a delicate pathway that leads straight to the altar.

“Your sacrifice for our family and for Norica will forever be remembered,” Father says, patting the trembling hand I have draped through his crooked arm. “For the greater good.”

He eyes me expectantly, as if waiting for me to repeat the mantra. The urge to strike him or rake my nails down his face or snatch the dagger he keeps sheathed at his ankle and drive it straight into his wretched heart for asking this of his daughter overwhelms me.

But I do none of those things.

King Joal sits to the left of the altar, guarded heavily by both hunters and trackers. All eyes are fixated on Vivvy, who stands tall and beautiful by the altar. She has a giddy sort of grin on her naturally rosy lips as she lifts her chin in silent encouragement.

Low notes of music swirl around us, and I swallow past the lump forming in my throat.

It’s starting.

Three witches dance barefoot in a circle around a controlled fire. Their waist-length silver hair and billowing gossamer dresses sway around them like curtains caught in a breeze. There are no instruments in their hands, however, just the sugared scent of magic in the air as a melody—pretty and haunting like a lullaby for a nightmare—drifts from them with every footfall, as clear as an orchestra giving a live performance.

My ever-fraying nerves slow my steps.

I can’t go through with this.

All those minuscule things I still want to do come barreling front and center into my mind as each step draws me closer to the altar. I want to see the ocean. Step. I want to grow my own botanical garden. Step. I want to own a fat black rabbit named Hopper. Step. I want to see Quill again. Ste⁠—

My steps falter. I am a mere stone’s throw away from the altar, and I cannot breathe. I gasp down air, but I cannot breathe. The altar is right there. Right there.

Father kisses each of my cheeks and my forehead through the veil. It’s all for show. He’s never kissed me before now, never loved me. Any love he might’ve felt for me died along with my mother the night she birthed me. I’m nothing more than his darling sacrifice. His lamb. He lifts my veil, and I cannot stop myself from spitting in his face.

The crowd gasps as he jolts backward.

Rage colors his cheeks. “You ungrateful little bitch.”

My heart pounds as I search for a way out.

There isn’t one. Every inch of the garden is blocked by hunters, trackers and guards.

A witch begins chanting, and a heady warmth washes over me. I can’t quite remember why it’s hard to breathe. My body moves on its own. I climb the few stairs up the altar and lie down without pause. This is what they bred me for. The prickly stone is terribly rough and unyielding against my back as it bites into my skin with agonizing pin pricks. Death is not meant to be comfortable. Crimson ribbons wrap around my biceps, pinning me in place. As soon as I’m secure the warmth slips away, leaving ice-cold fear in its wake.

That bitch compelled me.