She’d never seen someone so terrifying in ceremonial robes.
“We have kept outsiders from the sacred waters for five centuries,” she said, voice deepening as the cathedral’s weight gathered behind it. “This is why. An outsider has been Claimed, Jakobav.”
The name struck like a verdict. She released his wrist last, almost with contempt, and her voice rose, cold as iron.
“Two souls should never be Claimed at once. You have broken a law older than your line. You have contaminated the sacred spring.” She turned to look at Ella. “And both of you will pay for this.”
Ella shuddered, and her flames guttered out at once.
Jakobav adjusted his shoulders, fury leaching from his posture, and his expression was that of a man who would not yield. “Enough,” he said, quiet and dangerous. “Mind your place.”
She leaned in so close Ella could taste pear and juniper and the scorched-skin scent of her burned hand.
“All of Orchid will pay for this,” she murmured. “If they accept you at all. Unlike your kingdom’s fickle ink, this mark will never fade. The rose endures. You are bound to it forever…and to all the spring poured into you.”
Jakobav stepped between them, the movement so familiar it felt inevitable. “That is enough,” he said, and this time, the command carried the room.
He took Ella’s hand from her tight grasp and turned, drawing her away, and the inner circle closed around them like a shield.
“Prince.” The High Vexari’s voice rang after them. “You will meet me in the High Cathedral. Two weeks. Do not make me come find you.”
Jakobav didn’t look back.
The inner circle moved.
The mist billowing from the sacred pool swallowed the High Vexari’s silhouette, as if the spring had taken her in.
Ella barely had time to breathe before the inner circle was herding her out of the arena. Thane cleared a path with his voice raised like rolling thunder, Savina barked orders to the nearest guards, Maeren following close at Ella’s heels.
Soren Earth-Vated right into the ground, bypassing the chaos entirely, and reappeared right next to her. “Main gate secured,” he said to Jakobav.
They moved together, the six of them folding in tight formation into the shadowed labyrinth beneath the cathedral. The roar of the crowd faded the farther they moved down into the tunnels. The corridors pressed close, their damp walls breathing with the scent of moss and rotted wood. Shadows crawled over the carvings etched into the stone, twisting across ancient scriptwork as torchlight flared against them. The air was heavy, yet cooler than the spring above, each step drawing them deeper into the mountain’s veins.
Ella’s fire had lit back to a faint smolder, glowing around her wrists and the ends of her hair like stubborn embers, heat radiating off her in restless waves. She should have extinguished it, called the flame back, yet after years of absence, she simply couldn’t bring herself to smother it.
Jakobav’s arm never left her waist as they moved, his body an unyielding barrier against the crush of attendants and guards trying to fall in step.
Thane strode ahead, his voice cutting through the corridor. “Clear the passage! If you’re not First Guard, get out of my sight.”
Behind them, Savina’s orders rang out. “Seal the upper levels. No one leaves until names and loyalties are confirmed.”
And Bryn, of course, walked backward in front of them, as if none of the chaos had touched him. “Not to interrupt this very intimidating march,” he said cheerfully, “but in case anyone missed it, that was the single most dramatic Claiming in Dravaryn history, and I’ve attended seventy-eight.”
“Seventy-nine,” Maeren corrected dryly, still flexing her reddened hand.
Bryn’s eyes glinted. “Yes, but who’s counting? This one? This one will be sung about for decades. Possibly with more revelation than ritual.” His gaze flicked to Ella.
She kept her chin lifted, unwilling to let emotion rise. “Don’t assume all will survive to sing about it, healer.”
“That’s the spirit,” Bryn said brightly, twisting to avoid running into a wood column, as though this were nothing more than a stroll.
Soren emerged from ahead of them, stepping under a torchlight. In his hands was a folded garment, dark and sleek. Jakobav took it from him with a curt nod and turned to Ella, extending it out to her. “Here. Put this on.”
Ella blinked at the thing in his hands. It wasn’t a tunic. It wasn’t armor. It was…a dress. Fitted. Structured. Meant to move.
“You had a dress made for me?” she asked, breath hitching. “I don’t think I should wear it. I’d hate to destroy it like I did the robe.”
Jakobav didn’t flinch. “Kalenya told me you asked for clothing you could fight in weeks ago. Something you could hide blades beneath.” His eyes roamed over her flames, softening for half a heartbeat. “I made some changes to your request. Fireproofed. Reinforced.”
