I point. “We activate that one,” I say.
“For someone who doesn’t believe a familiar has found her, you’re putting a lot of faith in the damn creature,” Eve teases as she pivots around.
“If it doesn’t lead to the archives, then we don’t step through,” I retort, reaching for the dagger at my thigh.
Ryc grabs my wrist. “Let’s… not use that dagger for this,” he says with a small grin.
I glance down at the moonstone in the pommel of the bloodstone dagger and nod. Probably best not to.
“If it leads somewhere other than the archives, can the gate be closed?” Cyran asks. “Whatever lies beyond will be able to step through and I’d like to ensure we practice appropriate caution.”
If things turn dire, I’ll do what I must—ominous warning against innate usage or not.
I nod slowly as the inherent difference between Cyran and I becomes starkly apparent. The future Sovereign King of Erus will serve his people, protect them, always consider them.
I’ll always protectmeand those closest.
“Closing them is beyond my knowledge,” I say as Ryc and I move through the room toward the raven-graced arch. “But I’m confident I can figure it out if need be.”
Removing the blood offering should be enough.
But I won’t attest to that.
Ryc pulls his dagger from his hip and swipes it across his palm before I can argue. Silver pools in his hand before he presses it against the pillar. As he draws his hand away—his cut already healed—a silver stain remains, and a low,intensethrum blooms in my chest.
But nothing else happens.
“I don’t understand.” I step back, staring at the silver with narrow eyes. “It’s as if half the spell has awoken…”
It’s not enough.
His blood isn’t enough.
Why?
“Could it be due to your lineage?” I voice my thoughts, not expecting an answer.
Shaking my head, I make a silent request for Ryc’s dagger with a hand. With a quick flip, he catches it by the blade, offering the hilt to me. A quick flash of pain, and silver blooms across my palm. Prepared for the sensation of touching the gate, I press my hand against the stone and a ground shakingpulseof magic hits me square in the chest.
“Holy hells,” Eve breathes. “Did you feel that?”
Nowthe spell’s active.
Stepping back and returning Ryc’s dagger, my eyes remain fixed upon the blue-silver runes as they rain from the crest of the arch—the raven now missing. Ryc places a comforting hand upon my shoulder as a curtain of shimmering strings forms. They brighten, growing near white before taking on a reflective sheen. For a moment, I seeus—four black-clad figures standing before the arch, waiting for the waypoints to connect.
The reflection ripples as if a stone’s been cast into a still pond, and the four in wait waver away. A darker room comes into focus—round, filled with Ferry Gates cleaved from dark stone, and bustling withpeople.There’s laughter, chatter, even distant music.
Heads of silver, white, lavender…
More than one face swings in our direction and their eyes grow wide.
“Alert the Patriarch!” a male’s voice shouts in Malbolge and too many bodies scatter, others vanishing in bursts of flame and shadow and blood.
This isnotthe archives.
“This isCerwiden!” I near shout as I streak forth, slipping from Ryc’s grasp.
Drawing up a corner of my cloak, I wipe at the blood left upon the stone with the desperate hope it will be enough to sever the connection.
