No.
Not formed.
Placed.
The chamber wanted the response before the priest named it.
I open. I soften. I surrender the will that divides.
Sabine went cold.
Serast spoke the line aloud.
Lucien’s head turned sharply toward her.
He knew.
The room had pushed the words into him too.
Serast’s voice remained measured. “Lady Sabine. Repeat.”
Sabine opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
The mark burned up her arm, across her shoulder, toward her throat. The response pressed against her tongue like a hand forcing her jaw open from inside.
I open. I soften. I surrender…
Lucien moved closer.
Not touching.
Close enough that his body interrupted the line of Serast’s gaze.
“Lady Sabine,” Serast said. “Repeat the response.”
Lucien spoke first.
A clear High Veyran phrase, smooth enough that only someone trained would know the fracture.
Sabine did not know every word.
But she knew what he had done by the way the chamber reacted.
The basin shuddered.
The chalice rang once.
A second sigil cracked from top to bottom.
Maelor stepped forward. “Your Highness.”
Lucien did not look at him.
He looked only at Sabine.
His eyes told her the translation before language did.
