Sabine closed her eyes for a moment.
She could see it too easily. Isolde in white. Blood. Water. Lucien too late. The chamber punishing the exact thing the original vow once protected.
When she opened her eyes, Lucien was watching her.
Not like the prince.
Not like the man who wanted her.
Like someone standing with her on the edge of a grave that might also be a weapon.
“The Trial of Flesh gave us the proof in motion,” Sabine said. “This gives us the proof in stone.”
“But not the missing phrase.”
“No.”
“We need Serast’s book.”
“Yes.”
Lucien looked toward the door. “It will be locked in his private sacristy unless the final sequence has already been prepared.”
“And if it has?”
“Then the book may be moved to the Vow Chamber by dawn.”
A silence passed between them.
Dawn no longer sounded like morning.
It sounded like a blade being sharpened in another room.
Sabine stepped closer to the facing stones.
“The current rite expects the bride to kneel below the prince,” she said.
“Yes.”
“The old rite did not.”
“No.”
“Posture matters.”
Lucien’s gaze fixed on hers. “Yes.”
“If they call the final sequence before we find the phrase, I do not kneel.”
“No.”
“I do not give Maelor my hand.”
“No.”
“I demand First Consent.”
Lucien’s eyes darkened.
