She wasn’t exactly sure what marriage entailed in Arcadia. In the mortal realm, it meant different things to different people. To much of the wealthy class, it was simply used to elevate status or strengthen a bloodline. Though, she had acted as an apprentice during a handful of ceremonies during her time with the sisters and had observed some she had been sure were love matches. Still, even then, to legally bind yourself to someone else came with risks she had never quite understood. Even her parents, who she was sure loved each other more than most could even comprehend, had suffered unimaginable pain, and all because they had wed each other.
Now, she was marrying the son of the god-king responsible for the pain that never quite left their eyes.
Morgen led her to a small, raised basin, made of the same dark stone as the walls around them. Crystal clear water made a shallow pool in it, two slim silver daggers resting on the edge. A woman hovered nearby, wearing red robes and a veil over her face that made it impossible to tell her age. It probably wouldn’t have helped if Nya could see her features anyway. She understood many of the demi-gods and godlings in Arcadia were decades, if not centuries, old and still never aged.
The priestess approached, silent and on whispering feet. When she stopped just in front of the basin, she tilted her head, her eyes presumably on Nya. “Pull back your veil, Nya Evva.”
She did as the priestess requested, though the fact that the woman knew her full name unnerved her. Morgen had probably told her, but the way she said it was too knowing, as if the priestess was aware of something Nya was not.
As soon as the sheer fabric was gone from her face, the woman sucked in a short breath. “Fates, you look just like them,” she whispered.
Nya narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
The priestess shrugged, the small movement barely visible beneath the heavy robes. “I am but a whisper of Fate, and you are a ghost to me.”
Nya’s breath was shallow. “What is your name?”
The priestess sighed softly, her breath gently disturbing the veil over her face. “My name is Ana.” She lifted a slim, pale hand and added, “Palms up, both of you.”
Morgen was looking at the priestess, his brow creased but his eyes unreadable. He only moved when Nya held up her hands as Ana had instructed. When he did the same, Ana murmured something Nya did not understand then flipped his hands, placing his palms atop hers.
The torches extinguished and then flared back to life in a flash. Ana’s grip tightened momentarily before she let them both go, ordering, “Remain as you are until I say.”
She began to speak again, and after a moment, Nya realized the foreign words were in the Old Language of the gods, though she had no idea what any of it meant.
Her chant-like monologuing went on for far longer than Nya had anticipated, and the more time that passed, the harder it became to hide her trembling hands and her racing pulse. When she took an audibly shaking breath, Morgen’s thumb brushed over her palm. Her gaze shot to his.
It’s almost over.
She swallowed tightly.How do you know?
His eyes flicked to Ana.I can understand what she’s saying.
She didn’t ask how he knew the Old Language, or how he could tell Ana was almost done just by understanding the words. It was painful enough to send her thoughts purposefully down the pathway once. She didn’t need to keep chafing the wound of betrayal she felt each time heused it to speak to her.
Ana stopped speaking abruptly and picked up the daggers, holding them out. “Cut your palms directly under your left pointer finger, then clasp your hands again.”
Nya’s hand shook as she took the dagger.
A weapon.
A weapon she had never been trained to use in a room full of people who could probably kill her within seconds if they wanted to. She had no choice but to comply.
Morgen waited to make the cut in his palm until she pressed the sharp blade to her skin. She flinched at the bright shock of pain, but he didn’t even wince. Their blood dripped into the pool of water and sizzled as it hit the surface, causing Ana to jump.
“Was that not supposed to happen?” Nya heard herself say. Her own voice sounded tinny and wrong in her ears.
Ana cleared her throat but didn’t answer the question, instead ordering, “Clasp your hands. Now.”
Nya took a deep breath and obeyed, but as soon as her bloody skin met Morgen’s, the entire room plunged into a thick darkness. Whispers floated around them, voices that the small mortal portion of Nya instinctively knew werenothuman.
A shiver crawled up her spine as the pool sizzled once more, and Ana said in a hushed voice, “Diombachrìogna.Fate is not yet sated.”
In an instant, the torches flared, and Nya swore that, for a moment, the fire was not flickering orange and red, but a cold, sparkling obsidian. Her attention was quickly drawn to Morgen, though, as he demanded gruffly, “What do you mean by that?”
Ana took a deep breath and lifted her veil, revealing a face that was young only in appearance. Nya wasn’t fool enough to believe Ana was truly her own age, even if she appeared in her twenties.
“Nearing a century ago,” Ana said softly, “two heirs returned to Arcadia after over a hundred years of exile. Fated to meet,fated to rule, doomed to die.” She paused, silver ether flickering faintly in her light brown eyes. “Vulcan realized the tragic vision Juno had seen was true first. Then, Thanatos, and finally, Nyx, who only accepted Fate for what it was when they both took each other’s last breaths with blades to the heart, and then were consumed by dragon fire in front of me. But I…I had always seen you, Nya. Again and again, haunting my dreams so often, I was convinced, until the moment they were gone, that Fate was somehow wrong.”
