I look at Imas. He is breathing hard, his chest heaving beneath the heavy robes.
"Come here," he says.
I step forward. My legs feel heavy, as if I am walking through water. I stop before the altar. The stone is cold, stained with layers of old, dark blood.
He looks at me. He takes in the white silk, the way it pools around my feet.
"You look..." He stops, swallowing hard. "You look like a bride."
"Or a sacrifice," I say softly.
He flinches. He reaches out and takes my hand. His skin is freezing, burning with that unnatural cold. He leads me to the altar.
"Get up," he commands.
I climb onto the stone slab. It is hard and unforgiving against my back. I lie down, staring up at the vaulted ceiling lost in shadow.
He leans over me. He smells of terror. He reaches for the leather straps attached to the stone. He buckles my wrists, then my ankles. He does not tighten them enough to hurt, but enough to hold.
I am bound.
He steps back. He reaches into his sleeve and withdraws the dagger—the curved, serrated blade with the handle wrapped in human skin. The metal drinks the light.
He stands over me, the knife raised.
I look at his face. I should be screaming. I should be begging. Every instinct I have screams at me to fight, to thrash, to unleash the Purna light and burn him to ash.
But I don't.
I look into his violet eyes, and I see the truth.
He is crying.
Tears are tracking silently down his cheeks, cutting through the deep charcoal of his skin. He is shaking so violently the dagger vibrates in his hand.
I feel him. I feel the crushing, monolithic weight of his sadness. It isn't just grief for what he is about to do. It is grief for the man he wanted to be. He wanted to be strong for me. He wanted to keep me. But he believes this is the only way to survive, and he hates himself for it more than I ever could.
He is not a monster enjoying a kill. He is a man cutting off his own limb to survive a trap.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. The words are choked, barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
He raises the dagger higher, positioning the point over my heart.
"Do it," I whisper.
He freezes. He stares down at me, his eyes wide and wrecked.
"Do it, Imas," I say steadily. "If this is what you need... if this is the only way you can be whole... then do it."
I do not offer him forgiveness. I offer himunderstanding. I offer him the terrifying grace of being seen, truly seen, in his darkest moment. I offer him the permission to survive, even if the cost is me.
His jaw locks. The muscles in his neck stand out like cords of steel as he fights the tremble in his own arm. He does not drop the weapon. He does not turn away.
Instead, he inhales a breath that sounds like a death rattle. He tightens his grip on the handle until the human skin wrapping the hilt creaks.
"Forgive me," he whispers.
He raises the dagger higher. The serrated edge catches the violet light of the braziers, gleaming with a dark, hungry anticipation. He steels himself, his expression hardening into a mask of tragic, lethal resolve.
