Her mother had taught her everything she knew about the world of Savadon before she lost her humanity—that love was a grand emotion, and that it should be given to the Sun God and all of his glorious light.
That men…men were cruel and did not deserve such love, even those who claimed to love the sun themselves.
But as she grew older, those musings to the sun had grown awry. Her mother’s prayers had died as surely as the town had before Calavia’s birth, and when Calavia was barely budding into womanhood, her mother cursed the sun and began to prostrate herself to the mist instead.
She would strip off her clothes and make Calavia do the same, and the heroes of Savadon her mother often spoke of were replaced with the might of the mist, the power of the mist, and the embrace of the mist. It offered more protection than the false promises of the most stalwart hero
How could her mother’s hatred toward men and beasts be believed when she had changed her mind so easily about her faith?
Calavia pressed the vial to her chest and went back into the ruins of her home—the temple built at the end of Prayer. Her bare feet picked up dirt and displaced it as she walked through the dilapidated ruins and thickly tangled vines bulging from the partially eroded ceiling and walls. Faint light streamed through the cracks.
She pushed away a thick cluster of vines and entered her altar room. The center table—which had been built long before she’d taken up residence—was covered in clumps of wax that had pooled from candles placed atop and spilled over the edge of the table to gather on the floor below.
She’d break off the bottom pieces to form new candles, new items, and continued the cycle over again, but each time she did so, there was less wax than what she started with.
Long ago, she had gathered all the candles in Prayer and stored them here, in this room, for her use, only setting aside a few to brighten up the rooms when she needed to use them at night. But since then, there had been no more wax to replace what she already had. More of it would dissipate into the air, be swallowed up, or be used to seal wounds, but it, too, would eventually leave her like everything else had.
Calavia stepped up onto the thicker wax pieces and sat on her altar table, dangling her legs over the side. With a quiet sigh and a ruffle of her tattered clothes, she produced a knife and several pieces of blisterbark. Placing the vial of bull seed at the center of the table beside her, she lit some of the blisterbark with one of the already lit candles. It erupted into flames before settling into an ordinary spark. She placed it around the vial and raised the knife to her outstretched palm.
With it over the flame, and the quickly bubbling wax beneath, she sliced her flesh and winced. Countless years of scar tissue made it hard but she ground her teeth and worked at it until the blood poured over the sides of her hand.
She dropped the knife and squeezed her hand into a fist.
The moment her blood touched the flames, a copper scent flooded her nostrils, and a plume of rich smoke rose into the air, engulfing her. She squeezed harder, watching as her blood mixed with the melting wax vial, and eventually the bull seed within.
Her eyes widened, filled with ruby sheen, as a small tendril of hair fell into the flame and crackled. She dropped her hand to her lap and breathed in the magic, and her sacrifice.
“Blood guard us, blood sustain, until the day only blood remains,” she chanted quietly.
Calavia watched, transfixed, as wax, her blood, and minotaur seed combined and became one. The mixture would soon bubble over and become a part of the rest of her hardened pool of wax if she allowed it. She clenched her bleeding palm, and with her other hand, she dipped two fingers into the concoction.
Her fingers burned.Another sacrifice.
The magic floated in and out of her in heady waves. She brought her fingers to her lips with a shudder and sucked them clean.
Calavia swiped her tongue across her lips and made her way carefully off of her altar. She took a step away from the ghastly red flames still burning atop it.
“Come to me,” she whispered, exerting her will.
The pit in her belly grew as the wax congealed, coating her insides.
“Come to me,” she said louder as the last remaining reserves of her magic left her. She gasped. Wisps of steam leaked out of her mouth. She pressed her hands to her middle and bowed over. More smoke poured out of her as her magic created a distorted, shadowy image in front of her. The tips of her fingers went numb.
Five minotaurs appeared, created by the smoke.
She shook as they continued to grow bigger, as the smoke coming from her throat threatened to choke her. Her insides grew hotter still, cooking her from the inside out. She stumbled back, clutching her middle.
The agony intensified. The magic sharpened. She grew weaker still.
Calavia fisted her hands and held on desperately to what was left, fighting to remain conscious.Don’t faint.Who knows what would happen if she did? The ritual would be for nothing.
She and Prayer wouldbecomenothing.
Taking a slow, grueling step forward, she inspected the five large, shadowy minotaurs standing in front of her. Her eyes hooded.Five.She expected one, two at best, but five? How many minotaurs were nearby? How many champions? They were not common in these lands. She’d only first come face to face with one days ago.
The first phantasmal minotaur she recognized as Aldora’s champion; she ignored his appearance. There was a larger minotaur that stood beside him, but his image was weak and faded, as if the smoke could not make him out. She eyed him for a moment and felt a backlash the longer her focus was on him. This one had a broken horn, long, unkempt hair, and furious eyes staring straight through her soul.
His image began to fade.
