The trap opened beneath the words.
Flesh.
Lawful marriage.
Realm.
A bride’s body made property, then property made patriotic.
Sabine’s bandaged palm ached from the Trial of Flesh. She remembered Maelor’s blade. The chalice steaming. Lucien’s blood joining hers. The chamber trying to put surrender into her mouth before she could choose a word.
She spoke.
“I offer flesh as living witness, held by my own will, joined only where answer meets answer.”
The chamber bucked.
The relic’s glass casing cracked from top to base.
Heskar stepped forward.
Ilyra lifted one hand.
He stopped.
Lucien had gone completely still.
Not court still.
Battlefield still.
Serast turned toward Corvek. “This is sacrilege.”
Corvek looked at the relic.
The crack in the glass glowed faintly.
“The chamber has not rejected the candidate.”
“She is refusing the vow.”
“She is altering the formula,” Corvek said. “There is a procedural distinction.”
Elara’s mouth curved.
Serast looked as if he might strike him.
Then the chamber spoke.
Not in words.
In pressure.
A deep, old resonance moved through the floor and up through Sabine’s bones.
The mark on her arm warmed, then steadied.
It did not burn.
