The High Priestess’s rhythmic chanting only heightened the grip of my flashback. Something about the cadence of her words, the edge of her tone, kept me rooted there.
For a moment, I wished to disappear into a vision, so I could escape the memory that haunted me worse.
The male and females’ moans slid between her prayers.
Iaoth offered the chalice to others. Still more selected partners—male and female—and found space around the room.
A couple seated themselves on Heraphia’s chair.
Thatbrokeme.
“Get off of that!” I shouted, leaping to my feet.
“Sylaira,” Lyriasthe hissed, but I ignored her, stomping over to the people who dared take the place of my best friend.
The male tightened his grip on a female who had sat beside us at breakfast every day. She’d even made the Elessarum gesture at Heraphia’s funeral.
That only enraged me more.
I reached for them, only for binds of luminosity to yank me backward. A cry tore past my lips as I twisted on my bad knee.
Strong arms caught me, and when I looked up, Koron Stadiel’s face swallowed my view, all white and silver.
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, yanking to get myself free.
But his hold was firm, bruising, and relentless.
Pain arced from me to Vaeron, and his snarl turned feral.“I’m almost there.”
I glared up at the ruler of all the Angels. Nothing lay behind his eyes. Soulless, cold, empty. Everything I expected from the male who purported Demons as unholy beasts who needed to be eradicated.
“Cup,” was all he said, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Absolutely not,” I spat, twisting once again to try to free myself.
“There is no other Seer with your power. Therefore, you must drink,” he stated like he could force me to do anything I didn’t want to do.
“Only Vaeron has the power to override my own wants. And he would not use his Command on me like that again,” I shot back, defiance surging with the maelstrom inside me.
The grin he offered chilled me to my core. “You foolish, foolish child.”
The Korona and High Priestess encircled me, like all the times I’d had visions of silver bars banging into the ground. A cage I never quite seemed to escape rebuilt itself around me, the sound of metal slamming down echoing in my ears.
I scoured the atrium, refusing to succumb to the helpless feeling, searching for any sign of Lyriasthe.
But she was gone.
No one was going to save me.
57
Ivory strands poured from the three, thorned and writhing as they snared my limbs. I yanked on my own well, forcing their power away. But three against one? I stood no chance.
“We know what you are doing, Elessarum,” the Koron snarled, pressing his large hand to the center of my chest, right over my source of magic. The Korona stepped behind me, digging her fingers to my temples.
The High Priestess smeared cold runes across my skin, the sacred symbols searing as they set.
“No!” I shrieked, thrashing to dislodge their grip.
