Sabine followed him inside.
Lysa closed the door behind them and stood watch.
The antechamber was narrow, windowless, meant for storing trunks or hiding servants during court visits.
Lucien took both her hands.
“Sequence,” he said.
“You enter first. I follow. Serast speaks the initial blessing. Then the blood offering.”
“You do not kneel in the prescribed posture.”
“One knee. Not both. Like the Trial of Surrender.”
“Maelor will try to take your hand.”
“I will not give it.”
“He may try to force you.”
“Then you stop him.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened.
“Not too soon.”
“I know.”
“We wait for the break point. One breath after the bride’s blood would enter the submission channel.”
“The rest in Isolde’s score.”
“Yes.” Sabine met his eyes. “We speak together. High Veyran.The blood travels together, not alone. The answer is mutual, not given.”
“You cut across the prescribed line.”
“I redirect the blood flow to cross at the center instead of descending.”
“If the chamber convulses, we hold the line.”
“Yes.”
“If Serast orders Maelor to force the orthodox sequence—”
“You act. But not before the chamber reveals what it does.”
Lucien pulled her closer.
“If the chamber turns violent, you run.”
Sabine looked up at him.
“If you say that like an order, I will ignore it out of principle.”
His mouth almost curved.
“I know.”
