This is what makes me realize the rage seething beneath my skin doesn’t actually belong to me.Not all of it.
Borrowed emotions shuttle down the bond between us.
“I’m sorry, Tiss,” I hiss. Tip my head back against the wall. “Really, I am. But I’m not the one who fucking asked for this mess.”
Every time I think I’m used to a dynamic or development, she shocks me all over again.
I thought nothing could be as jarring as watching her fuck herself in the greenhouse yesterday. Or seeing her walk up the path to the arch before Delia fetched me. Told meLady Madochad come seekingmyaudience.
Goddess knows she keeps finding fresh new ways to prove me wrong.
“I hate this,” I whisper to nobody.No, hate isn’t nearly a strong enough word.
Iabhorlying to her and despise myself for doing it, but I have no idea who she is, and I can’t trust her in her current state.
You are my greatest weakness, Tiss. If you had any idea how much power you hold… If you knew what actually goes on in this godsforsaken place, you’d understand.
I know you would.
Morday, the 12th of Emberglow
Less Than 1 Month Ago
The morning of Tiss’s arrival at the temple, a kestrel dives right into the side of the Residential Quarters.
I hear its call long before I see it. The sharp, repetitive cries stop me cold as I cross the courtyard, prompting me to turn and scan the skies.
Kestrels typically don’t venture to scrubby, barren mountaintops, preferring the lush lowlands and forests.What is it doing all the way up here?
Its cries get louder. More frantic. That’s when I clock it. A dark mass against the sky, except for the light upper tail feathers.
It takes a deep dive just as I spot it, as if going for prey—right into the side of the building. The impact is bone-crushing. Hair-raising.
Motionless, it drops to the ground.
A shriek erupts from my throat as I sprint for it. Pray to the Goddess of Destruction and Regeneration that it isn’t dead.
I throw myself to my knees. Scoop the poor creature into my lap. Blood trickles from what remains of its obliterated skull, spilling over tawny brown and white spotted feathers. Its body is limp and warm in my hands.
It’s far too late for prayers. A sob escapes me while I cradle it, hands shaking.
The incident is so upsetting, so sudden, it takes a long while to stand. Wrapping it in my cloak, I place it carefully beneath the Waymark. Head back inside, shaking from cold and shock.
I wash my hands and change my overdress, which is spattered with blood droplets. Relative to their size, birds don’t have much blood. There isn’t much on me. Still, I can’t feel clean until I’m changed.
I find an empty wooden crate and grab another cloak. Borrow a spade from the greenhouse. Set on burying it somewhere high, I place it gently into its makeshift coffin. Begin the trek to the Observatory.
The climb up the rocky path is difficult with both hands full. At least the spade makes a decent walking stick.
I’m only just finishing my task, patting the freshly-turned earth over the kestrel’s grave, when I see her.
At first I have no idea who’s cresting the winding ceremonial road. All I know is a visitor’s coming out of season.
Then cold foreboding grips my heart.
Slinging the spade hastily over my shoulder, I hurry back down the steep path. I’m trying my damndest to ignore the twisting terror, to stop wondering whether the kestrel’s death dive was supposed tomeansomething. I barely make it to the bottom without spraining my ankle.
Sweat plasters my dress to my body. My breath comes in ragged huffs. Vision swimming, blood pressure dropping from exertion, I lean against the Orrery Tower.
