Lucien stared at her like he wanted to shake her and kiss her and lock her somewhere no one could reach.
Sabine stood.
Her legs were still unsteady, but she crossed to him anyway.
“The rite can be altered from inside,” she said. “You understood.”
“Yes.”
“If the language is strong enough.”
“And if the pair is willing.”
The words settled between them.
Pair.
Not prince and bride.
Not crown and offering.
Pair.
Sabine touched his bandaged palm.
The cut from the Trial of Flesh had reopened slightly. A small line of blood marked the white cloth.
“You bled again,” she said.
“So did you.”
She looked down.
Her own bandage was stained beneath the sleeve. She had not noticed.
Both of them had opened under the relic’s pressure.
Both of them had stayed standing.
Lucien’s thumb brushed her wrist.
The bond answered.
Not like the Trial of Flesh. Not like the chamber shoving words into her mouth. Not like the Blackwater dragging cold through her lungs.
This was warm.
Steady.
Waiting for her.
Sabine stepped closer.
Lucien’s breath changed.
“Sabine.”
“No priests,” she said.
