Where the response should have saidyield, Lucien saidrecognize.
What is joined must recognize joining.
The chamber paused.
The pressure in the walls thickened.
A sigil carved into the basin flared dull red, then faded.
Serast’s eyes narrowed.
“Again,” he said.
Lucien repeated the altered line.
This time the chamber accepted it.
Barely.
A hairline crack opened through the sigil.
Maelor’s gaze snapped to it.
Sabine kept her face still.
Inside, her pulse hammered.
Lucien had changed the rite.
In front of them.
Not enough for Serast to accuse him cleanly. Enough to spare her the word.
Enough to keepyieldfrom becoming part of the bond.
Maelor lifted the chalice and held it between them.
“Hands.”
Sabine placed her cut palm against one side of the cup.
Lucien placed his against the other.
Their blood mingled beneath silver.
The bond surged.
Not warmth.
Force.
Sabine felt Lucien through it. His anger. His fear. His desire held on such a tight leash it had become pain. His guilt over Isolde like a locked room inside him. His awareness of Sabine’s hand on the cup, her sleeve against his wrist, the fact that every required touch in this chamber felt like violation because witnesses had made it theirs.
The rite pushed deeper.
Her breath caught.
A line of High Veyran formed in her mind before Serast spoke it.
