His blood joined hers.
The chalice steamed.
No fire beneath it. No visible heat. But a thin thread of vapor rose from the mixture, carrying the smell of copper and rain.
Serast began to speak in High Veyran.
The first line was old, formal, and beautiful.
Sabine understood enough of the language now to follow parts of it.
Two bloods enter witness.
Lucien answered.
His voice was steady.
Two bloods stand named.
Serast looked to Sabine.
She repeated the line Halvine had trained them to know.
The chalice warmed.
The chamber answered.
Not with sound.
With pressure.
A low tightening in the walls, the floor, the basin, the air itself.
Maelor dipped two fingers into the chalice and drew a line of mingled blood across Lucien’s cut palm. Then he did the same to Sabine.
The moment their blood touched her skin, the bond opened.
Sabine gasped.
She was not in the chamber.
She was standing in mud.
Rain struck her face sideways, hard and metallic. Men shouted beyond a ridge. Horns sounded. Something burned in the distance, sending black smoke through low gray sky. Her hands were larger, gloved, gripping a sword too tightly. Her left shoulder hurt. Her mouth tasted of blood and fear forced behind clenched teeth.
Lucien.
The memory struck and vanished.
Another came.
A young woman sitting by a window, dark hair pinned loosely, laughing as a tiny music box played a thin, sweet melody. Isolde. Alive. Her hand extended toward Lucien, holding the box open, teasing him for being too solemn to appreciate frivolous things.
Then black water.
Hands reaching.
Lucien screaming without sound.
