She doesn't look convinced.
The throne room has been transformed.
Silver dust forms intricate patterns across the stone floor—geometric shapes nested within shapes, sacred geometry that makes my eyes ache if I stare too long. Candles ring the outer edge, unlit but waiting. Braziers hold herbs the mystic prepared, ready to burn. And in the center, the binding circle itself—a perfect ring of blessed silver wide enough for two people to stand inside.
Rhystan is already there when I arrive, shirtless despite the morning chill, checking every line of the circle for imperfections. His back muscles shift as he moves, dragon-scale scars catching the grey light from the windows. The knife he'll use to cut his palm sits on a cloth nearby, blade gleaming.
He looks up when he hears me enter. Something fierce and desperate flashes across his face before he controls it.
"You should be resting."
"I've been resting for weeks." I walk the outer edge of the circle, studying his work. Perfect lines. Perfect geometry. He's been meticulous about this. "Everything ready?"
"Almost. The mystic is preparing the stabilizing herbs. We'll start the braziers an hour before sunset—gives the smoke time to saturate the room." He pauses. "How do you feel?"
"Like I'm about to absorb three centuries of divine curse." I stop across the circle from him, silver dust between us like a river neither of us can cross. "So. Fine."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You're a terrible liar."
"I learned from the best."
The words land sharper than I intended. His almost-smile fades.
"Kess—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Whatever you're about to say—apology, declaration, last words—don't. I can't have that in my head when I'm trying to concentrate on not dying."
He's quiet for a moment. Then nods.
"Fair enough." He returns to checking the circle. "After, then. All the things I want to say—I'll tell you after."
"After," I agree. "When I survive."
"Whenyou survive." He says it like it's already fact. Like my survival is something he's decided and the universe will simply have to comply.
I love him for that certainty. Even now.
The mystic arrives an hour later with armfuls of herbs and a severe expression that doesn't soften when she sees me.
"You're not resting."
"I'm not capable of resting." I help her arrange the herbs in the braziers, careful not to disturb the silver lines. "My daughter's life depends on what happens in this room tonight. Sleep isn't really an option."
"Hmm." She doesn't argue, just adjusts my grip on the herb bundle I'm holding. "This one goes in the eastern brazier. It needs to burn first—prepares the body for magical trauma."
"Comforting."
"It's not meant to be comfortable." She fixes me with those too-knowing eyes. "It's meant to keep you alive. The comfort comes after. If there is an after."
"You're a delight. Anyone ever told you that?"
"Frequently." She moves to the next brazier. "Usually right before they die."
Rhystan makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. The mystic ignores him.
We work in relative silence after that, preparing the room, checking components, running through the ritual sequence one more time. The words are carved into my memory now—I could speak them in my sleep, probably have been speaking them in my sleep. Every harsh syllable, every guttural stop, every precisely stressed consonant.
The sun climbs higher, hidden behind clouds but marking time regardless. Morning becomes midday. Midday stretches toward afternoon.
