Not hurried. Not desperate. A quiet, grateful kiss that tastes like goodbye. For one brief moment, I let myself lean into it. Letmyself forget the fire. The water. The midnight fire waiting for me.
When he pulls away, he presses something into my palm. My breath catches as I recognize the weight. My Pegasus dagger—the one taken from me upon my arrival at this accursed temple.No need for weapons in the afterlife, the maids had said.
“Just in case,” he murmurs. Then, lower still, “You and I both know you won’t be dining with the gods tonight.”
My pulse stutters. He knows.
I stare at him, questions burning. Did his father tell him? Does the Council know? Have I been exposed already?
But Aaron only gives me a sad, knowing look.
“Use your power wisely,” I say. “And for gods’ sakes—visit more than one temple.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and presses his hand briefly over mine, sealing the dagger between our palms like a vow.
“And… watch out for her,” I say, glancing toward the door Kat disappeared through.
“I promise.” He turns to leave, then pauses. For just a breath, I see the weight he carries—expectations, legacy, guilt. He never wanted to inherit his family’s power. Nor was he meant to.
Maybe that’s why he’s the only one strong enough to carry it.
“Give ’em hell, witch,” he says, that devilishly crooked smile easing something tight in my chest.
The door closes behind him.
I stand alone, the echo of my sister’s words still ringing in my ears, the weight of every choice I’ve ever made pressing against my ribs like a closing fist.
The drums begin.
No, not drums. Warbeats. A rhythm older than language, pulsing from the bones of the land itself. Every thud echoes through my chest like a countdown. A farewell. The sky above blazes like copper and blood, and even the wind seems to hold its breath. A horn sounds from the hilltop, and thousands of heads turn. I grip my red bouquet tighter; it feels more funerary than bridal.
As we watch, two figures emerge from the mist-drenched road—one tall, cloaked in crimson and black, and the other delicate and feminine, gliding beside him in white.
The tall man moves with the elegance of someone used to a position of command. Golden hair falls in waves over a sharply cut jaw, and when he lowers his hood, the entire crowd seems to hold its breath. His eyes are strange—gold-shot amber, bright enough to catch glimmers of light even in the dusk.
The Oracle bends low. “Lord Cassian Vale, Envoy of the Gods, Speaker for the South,” she greets him.
Lord Cassian inclines his head, offering a hollow smile. “An honor, as always.”
Beside him, the woman tilts her face toward the sound of the Oracle’s voice. Her eyes are as pale and piercing as moonstone. I know her name. We all know her name.
Lyra.As golden-haired as her brother and just as tall.
The twins. The representatives of the North and the South. I’d heard the stories, the whispers that they were alive at the founding of the Bloodmoon Ceremony—that one could read truth in a heartbeat, and the other could sense a soul’s worth in a single glance.
Lord Cassian paces down the line of brides, Lyra and the Oracle in tow, his measured gaze falling on each of us in turn.
When it lands on me, I swear I can see something flicker in those golden eyes. Interest, maybe? Or recognition? He looks away and whispers something to Lyra, who smiles faintly, as ifshe already knows the outcome of a game only they know is being played.
“They like to wager on who will be accepted by the gods first,” the bride next to me murmurs, “and who will be rejected and torn to pieces.”
A chill crawls up my spine.
“That’s why they have golden eyes,” another whispers. “They’re the only ones with the power to see through the mist.”
Cassian steps closer, inspecting Azariel as if testing the sacred blade’s edge. “Carry out the rites as tradition demands,” he commands. “The great Drakonis grows impatient for his offerings.”
The Oracle nods, and the drums resume—louder this time, reverberating through the water like a summons from another world.
