“Is this what you wanted me to see?” I ask Mirial, pointing to the carcass.
She shakes her head and lifts a cloth from the golden offering tray. I glance down and gasp, the sound echoing in the small, stone-walled room.
A mal omen.
I press my hand to my lips and swallow the bile rising in my throat, but my fingers are shaking.
I’ve never seen a mal omen in person, but it’s unmistakable. The pink liver of the eagle has turned as black as my hair and reeks of death. The solid charcoal appearance is the worst harbinger of rot and chaos. My mind races back to the last time one was seen. It was right before the Hundred Year War began, when the nearly immortal king locked us into battle with the Kingdom of Arthago for a century, killing hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children.
The sign means that death is coming to Pryor—and a great deal of it.
My stomach bottoms out as heavy foreboding shatters my composed facade. I scratch at my wrists, wringing my hands.
Bloody lies, what do I do now?
Mirial’s pale blue eyes are locked on my green ones. She’s as close to a mother as I’ve ever had, but she’s awaiting instruction from me. As High Priestess, it is my role to lead the Faith, my responsibility to know what to do.
But I don’t.
I was only a first-year acolyte when my father died and the elder priests pressed me to fill his position. Having grown up in the temple, I’ve always been considered god-chosen, but my father fell ill quickly and didn’t have the time to teach me everything I needed to know. We assumed we’d have time. But time and health are never guaranteed.
For the most part, I’ve held things together, but I am not Osiris Vestal. I’m not even the person they all think I am.
I swallow hard, forcing down the word that claws up my throat—the truth of what I am—but I can’t eventhinkit again. My breath comes in shallow sips, and I ball my hands in fists as I try to focus on the mal omen before me. What now? With an omen like this, the Revelry should be canceled and the Senate Council convened on Mount Ara. But…that’s not my decision to make.
We divine the truth from the god and share it on earth. The Senate Council worries about the impact on the people. That separation keeps the Faith from ruling the republic. But I have to do something. Maybe I should refuse to start the celebration or—
“It’s nearly sunset,” Mirial says in a clipped tone.
I eye her. She’s not helping, and she knows it.
“I don’t…I don’t know what to do,” I admit. I hate the weakness in the wobble of my voice almost as much as I hate disappointing her.
Mirial sighs. “You need to report the omen to the Senate Clerk and then start the Revelry.”
“But…”
“But nothing. It is tradition and your duty, Kera. You must tell the clerk and go take your place on the Revelry dais—unless theCouncildecides otherwise.”
Before I can say a word in reply, Mirial is gone, and I’m left with a liver that reeks of blood and rot.
I close my eyes for a long blink as dread courses through me.
And not just from the mal omen.
I try to forget who I’ll be seated next to on the dais, as he is the last thing I need to think about right now. But with my elevation to High Priestess, I’ll have no choice but to sit next to the dreaded Praetorian. I’ll see him tonight, all next week, and after, when the Verity Guild will convene for the first time since my father’s passing.
Shaking out my hands, I try to loosen the noose of fear, but it fits my neck like a vise. With one more exhale, I give up. I raise my chin and glide toward my chambers despite the choking feeling. I have acted the part for my entire life—I can do it for another night. Even with the mal omen, even if it’s next to Torren Morvane. Even if I am not actually a Vestal, but the last of the magical Elusian bloodline.
II.
Torren
The roar of the crowd rises in my ears, begging for blood, and I’m happy to oblige.
My opponent sways in front of me, looking but not seeing. He fought well, but this match was over before it began. The man comes from the Southside, the rich end of the capital.
He’d tried to hide his noble status, but it was obvious from his tailoring and bearing. For all the advantages they have south of the Tiger River, they can’t fight like the Northside. It’s not really their fault—they’ve never had their lives depend on their hands.
