Valentina tenses.
One of the robed members stands before her. I don't release her.
"It's okay. Let her put it on," Fiona quietly orders.
I look at her eyes through the mask.
She smiles and nods.
I reluctantly release Valentina.
"You too," Fiona states.
I help Valentina into hers first. Then I slide into mine, grinding my molars. This is just more symbolic theatrics. Every step into this world tightens something invisible around my throat. And I'll be damned if they hurt my wife any further.
My wife.
Jesus.
I'm married.
I tug Valentina back into me. "Thanks for the robes. Can we go now?"
Kirill's lips twitch. He angles his body toward the crowd and raises his voice again. "Tonight, they have proven themselves worthy."
The arena erupts, not in chaos but in a sick twist of reverence.
My spine stiffens. I don't trust it. I never will.
Kirill steps forward and announces, "Pay homage to those worthy of seats on the Royal Council!"
My head snaps toward Valentina.
I expect the arena's firelight to catch on her face, to brighten her eyes, to send some burst of triumph across her expression. She's chased this goal for years. She's bled for it. Sacrificed. Obeyed.
But her face shows nothing. There's no smile, excitement, or pride, just an eerie stillness that slices sharper than any blade I've seen tonight.
The arena shakes from the new chant, "Revarum! Revarum! "Revarum!"
I glance at Valentina, confused.
She got what she wanted. Why does she look like the ground beneath us shifted in a direction she didn't anticipate?
The chanting tapers into a low hum that crawls across the arena's curved walls. The members bow their heads. Torches dim. A hush settles over the space and prickles my skin.
Kirill steps forward, and the arena turns silent. His voice cracks through it. "The seat on the Royal Council requires more than perseverance. It requires vows that bind deeper than blood."
Here we go.
I tighten my hand on Valentina's waist.
She remains motionless beside me, her expression carved from marble without a single glimmer of anything reflecting what should be triumph.
It gnaws under my ribs, confusing me further. She should be shining. Instead, she stands distant, unreadable in a way that leaves my stomach tight.
"Repeat after me, together," Kirill commands.
A fresh knot twists inside me. All their vows and proclamations are another thing I hate. My loyalty will never be with the Underworld. I'm an O'Malley by choice, and I'll never choose this cult over my clan.
