“The altar,” Nyses said curtly, hand still on his shoulder to lead him forward.
“B-But, Your Majesty?—”
“Now,” the king ordered.
With a reluctant nod, the acolyte crept down the corridor until it opened into an enormous chamber. A high vaulted ceiling and marble columns lined the path to a raised dais. Timber fell forty feet from the roof, landing before them in a crash of burning embers and ash.
“You may go,” Nyses said to the boy, who breathed out a sigh of relief. With one last look at his king, he pivoted on his heels and rushed back out of the crumbling temple.
Eyeing the stone altar before him, Nyses unclasped his robe from his neck and let it fall to the floor. He ascended the dais with steady steps. The sounds of the crackling flames and creaking wood faded into the background as he ran his hand along the flat, rough top of the altar, stained red by the blood from centuries of sacrifices.
The temple of the Fates was the oldest temple in all of Mysthelm, nestled in the center of the Mid Territory. It had withstood the test of time and carried the bulk of sacred texts, historicalrecords, and a plethora of artifacts representing the kingdom of Mysthelm’s faith in the Fates.
Nyses’s jaw ticked. The almighty temple, brought to its knees by flames of men.
He reached into his pocket and felt the cool edges of gold coins against his fingers. Pulling out a handful, he dropped them atop the altar. “A sacrifice of great value, offered willingly to the divine Fates of legend,” he said, his voice strong despite the sounds of beams crashing to the floor behind him. “I humbly beseech your presence to help your followers conquer this great evil against your sanctuary.”
His eyes scanned the ceiling above him, waiting for some sign the three beings had heard his request. Surely, if they would answer for anything, it would be for the sake of their holy place.
He was met with silence.
Gritting his teeth, he yanked one glove off his hand and pulled his dagger from its sheath. He sliced a thin line down his palm, then brandished the wound over the altar and watched as red bubbled to the surface and spilled over, trickling onto the pile of gold.
A rush of wind broke through the heat radiating at his back.
“Put your flesh away, young king.”
Chills spread across Nyses’s skin at the feminine voice, a warning beating in his ears.
A second voice joined the first, this one higher and lighter. Ghostly fingers brushed his neck. “Now, now, sister. I rather enjoy looking at his flesh. He is quite the handsome king, is he not?”
“Handsome, perhaps, but what lurks beyond those dark eyes?”
There was a pause, and the air around Nyses swelled and pulsed, pushing at his skin. Clearing his throat, he said, “I have come to request the aid of the all-powerful Fates.”
“We know why you’re here, Your Greatness.”
“Yes, Your Magnificence. We have seenyour desires.”
“Then why have you not stopped this fire? Don’t you wish to save your temple?” Nyses pressed.
A high-pitched giggle echoed off the stone walls, and the second voice spoke again. “Tell us, oh great Nyses Grimaldi,”
“What would make the King of Mysthelm,”
“Burn his own temple to the ground?” a third finished the question, a deeper female voice than the others. Her words reverberated in his very bones.
“You have been a naughty king, Nyses Grimaldi.”
He blinked. “I don’t know what you speak of.”
“Perhaps you should have removed the kindling from your boots?—”
Something hit the top of his boots, making him look down to see twigs and leaves from the forest underbrush knocked to the floor.
“And cleaned the flint from your skin.”
An invisible force gripped his wrist, holding it over the altar once more. Nyses bit back a grunt as the cut on his hand burned and more blood fell to the stone. Evidence of dark flint lingered on his bronze fingers. A moment later, his arm was released, causing him to stumble forward into the altar.
