“You will drink,” Mother Inrith continued, her dark eyes fixed upon her. “As it was in the first days, so it is now. The blood of the first Bargain, passed from Veilwalker to Veilwalker, unbroken until the end of all things.”
Her stomach twisted. “And then?”
“You will enter the chamber,” Mother Inrith explained, lifting her cup as though in illustration, though she did not drink. “It is a narrow room, bare stone, with a single wall shared with the adjoining hall. On the other side, the faithful will gather. One at a time, they will be led in to stand against that wall while you wait in silence.”
Her voice lowered, even, ritualistic. “You will not see them. They will not see you. That is the order of things. You are the hand of the Fates, not the judge of men. You will listen. You will wait. When the Fates stir within you—when the warmth fills your marrow, when your bones know what your mind cannot—you will strike the wall three times.” She raised her hand, rapping her knuckles softly on the table.Thump. Thump. Thump.
“That is the signal. The attendants will remove that one and bring them to the altar. No sight, no question, no hesitation. You feel. You know. You choose.”
Ilys’s chest tightened. “And if I feel nothing?”
Mother Inrith’s expression did not waver. “You will feel it. All Veilwalkers have. Grim before you. His master before him. The Fates are mysterious, yes, but they are constant in their ways.” She leaned back. “It is not yours to decide, child. It is only yours to obey.”
When the moon rose to its mark, the Sanctum stirred to ceremony.
And so she stood at the altar, the cup before her, dark as the void between stars. The liquid inside swished, laced with spice, but she knew what it meant to symbolize. The first blood spilled in the Bargain. The first sacrifice. The first Veilwalker who had drunk and been chosen.
It was strange, walking a path so carefully paved and feeling no wonder for where it led. Her fingers brushed the cup; hesitation answered, low and animal in her chest.
The faithful watched from below the altar, submissive in attentiveness. Their faces blurred together into a single faceless entity, encouraging Ilys to shut her eyes.
Let it be done,she prayed.Let the Fates see. Let them guide my hand.
The liquid burned against her tongue, rich and too old, carrying centuries within it. It settled into her stomach with warmth that felt more like a stone than any sanctitude. She swallowed, and lowered the cup.
The ceremony had begun.
The chamber unfurled compact and dim. Ilys sat cross-legged on the floor, the cool surface numbing her legs, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Beyond the wall, in the adjoining room, the faithful gathered. She could not see them. She was not meant to.
Mother Inrith’s voice echoed in her memory:When the Fates stir within you, you will know. Rap the wall three times. No sight, no hesitation. Only certainty.
The first knock came, hollow against the wood.
Ilys held her breath. She waited for a feeling—for warmth in her marrow, for the stirring Mother Inrith had promised—but the emptiness only deepened. Just her pulse clanging in her ear.
A pause. The door opened, then shut again.
The next knock.
Still nothing.
Another. And another.
They came in waves, each presence behind the wall waiting and Ilys sat in the silence, every breath heavier, the oil-thick air stinging her throat.
And so it went for days. Ilys sitting numb on the stone for hours, knocks like a metronome rattling her thoughts as she felt a complete and terrifying nothing. It was a blur of waiting. Waiting and preparing. The rites were whispered to her again and again until they pressed against her skull like a brand. Each night she lay awake, hearing the words over and over:You will feel it. You will know. You will obey.
What if I never feel it?the thought whispered.What if the Fates do not speak? What if I choose wrong?
Another knock.
She pressed her palms against her knees, forcing herself to still.Trust in the Fates,she told herself.Trust in them.
Knock.
Nothing.
Knock.
