Below, the ceremony moves forward, unbothered by the quiet battle unfolding on this balcony, and I force myself to calm, to focus.
The Sibyls’ voices weave through the temple, their layered cadence ringing with finality. “Zyrel Falcon.”
He strides toward a statue of Thul'Barak. Thick, spiraling horns jut from the god’s skull, wide at the base and ridged like something torn from the wild. They arc upward, framing a face etched with grim authority.
All the gods are depicted with horns, as if they rose not from the heavens but clawed their way out of the bowels of the earth and were never quite able to shed the monstrous parts of themselves.
Zyrel slices his palm without hesitation, a wolf’s snarl curling his lips as his blood drips onto the temple’s pristine marble and he slams his palm against the statue of his god.
The crowd does not gasp. They do not recoil. They know him, and worse, they welcome him and wait to see which godbeast will appear to serve him.
My fingers tighten at my sides as the air splits with a sound like tearing canvas, and a giant form bursts forth.
Monstrous. Black as oiled ink, all jagged muscle and madness. Foam slicks its fangs, dripping from a snarling maw that gapes too wide. The dragon’s wings are bare bones, strung like a corpse’s ribs, stripped of flesh, splayed over its back in a skeletal shroud.
It loosens, not a roar but a scream: high, sharp, and so loud it rattles the temple walls. It looks just as unhinged as the champion who summoned it. Even Ryker, slumped and hollow-eyed in his throne, seems to stir.
“This cannot be our next Archpriest,” Eva spits beside me.
I look back at Mael who stands in the only direct path out of the balcony, his presence a quiet, immovable force. I arrange my features into what I hope passes for neutrality, but my stomach twists with uncertainty. I feel trapped on the balcony.
“Seraphina Bardot.”
I blink, the name drags me back to the present. A girl glides forward, all elegance and poise, as if she were woven from the temple’s own light. Her white silk ensemble, tailored for ease in battle yet refined enough for court, catches the glow like spun air. Her bright green eyes serene, posture unshakable, she moves as though the world itself was made to look her way. Like she was born for the spotlight. For the Trial.
A flicker of envy passes through me. She is everything I am not.
Seraphina slices her palm in a fluid motion and presses it against the statue of Velskan, God of Traversing and Lust.
Then her Godbeast steps forward.
A green dragon, the size of two large horses, appears. This one’s wings are twisted, malformed, unable to spread. The practice the gods adopted centuries ago to domesticate wild dragons—still carried on, it seems—feels barbaric when seen this closely. The dragon should be fearsome, instead it’s… restrained. Compared to Zyrel’s feral-looking beast, this one moves more like a trained pet. When it nudges up beside Seraphina, something awful knots in my chest. Pity.
Mael exhales beside me. “Do you see now?” His voice is barely a whisper, deceptively gentle. “Sometimes we must take what life gives us,” he murmurs mockingly, “and be grateful.”
“You mean accepting a monster,” I ask innocently, “when we’d hoped for a god?”
I’m met with silence and do my best to ignore him as the champions step forward, one by one. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. A few men shift in the crowd beneath the balcony, peeling away and drifting toward the base of the stairs. Their eyes flick subtly toward Mael, a silent signal, they understood the command.
A sharp, ice-cold breath grips my lungs.
Mael has presented our marriage as a choice—even a favor.But perhaps I have no real say in this at all.
Before I can react, the cadence of the Sibyls’ voices drags me forcefully back into the present as they finish detailing the Trial’s decree. “The victor’s sins, debts, criminal charges, every blemish upon their past, shall be expunged, granting our ultimate champion the gift of rebirth.”
The words latch onto me. A rebirth. A clean slate. A deep, painful ache shudders through me as I consider what I would give for such a chance. If only I were a warrior, like the brutal champions standing below.
I stand frozen, the weight of the proclamation pressing down, forcing an idea to the forefront of my mind. An idea so outrageous my head shakes slightly at its absurdity. But this is a chance to undo everything, I say to myself. To erase the stain of my existence. My sins. My curse.
This could fix everything.
The thought is so sudden, so all-consuming, that my throat constricts around it. I was raised to believe that some stains cannot be washed away, some sins cannot be forgiven. And yet, the Sibyls speak of absolution as if it is as simple as winning. As if blood and sacrifice could rewrite fate itself.
The temple erupts in a storm of roars, as the last Godbeast announces its presence to the world. The sound crashes over me, a deafening tide, but I barely hear it.
Because my eyes find Ryker’s. He sees me.
For a moment, the world narrows to just us. His haunted gaze locks onto mine, his mouth slightly parted, as if he is only now realizing I am here. As if he can still feel the echo of my betrayal, the ruin we left behind.
