Serast noticed.
Of course he did.
“Lady Sabine,” he said. “Approach.”
She did.
Every step toward the basin brought the mark closer to burning.
Serast’s eyes moved over her face, her throat, her exposed wrist, the dark lines at the edge of her sleeve.
“The Trial of Flesh confirms bodily harmony between prince and chosen bride,” he said. “The crown cannot be carried by divided blood. The sacred union cannot be sealed where flesh rejects bond. Today the rite asks what the body already knows.”
Sabine looked at the basin.
“What does the body already know,” she asked.
Maelor smiled faintly.
Serast did not.
“That depends on whether it resists truth.”
Lucien’s voice cut across the chamber.
“Explain the sequence.”
Serast turned to him. “Your Highness knows the sequence.”
“I want it spoken into record.”
A small silence followed.
Halvine’s pen paused over the page.
Serast inclined his head, almost amused. “As you wish. The prince and chosen bride will each offer blood beneath witness. Blood will be mingled in the Chalice of Witness. High Veyran compatibility responses will be spoken. The chamber will observe. If the bond answers cleanly, passage is granted. If the bond rejects, passage is withheld.”
“And if the chamber interprets resistance as rejection?” Lucien asked.
Serast’s eyes sharpened. “Resistance to sacred union is rejection.”
“No,” Lucien said. “Resistance to coercion is not rejection.”
The air tightened.
Maelor’s smile widened by a fraction.
Sabine looked at Lucien, but he did not look back. He kept his attention on Serast.
The words had landed where he meant them to.
Not enough to break the ritual.
Enough to mark the record.
Serast stepped toward the plinth. “Let us begin.”
Maelor took Sabine’s hand first.
