I had never had sisters. In any honest accounting, the word meant little to me. But the nod was a knowing, and the knowing was: we are in it together, whatever it is.
The bond hummed at my wrist.
Not Lucan’s side. My own.
The king sat the throne.
He was dying. Anyone could see it—his face was carved with so many fine lines it looked like old veined marble, and the hands that gripped the arms of the throne had gone thin, the skin translucent over the white of the bone, the nails dark, the sigils at the knuckles faded and cracked. The crown sat heavy on the skull, the gold of it gone to a dull pewter, and behind the throne the pillar of the domain burned less bright than even the smallest veins in the floor.
He looked at Lucan.
He looked at me.
He remained silent.
We took our places at the foot of the dais. Lucan’s hand rested lightly on my back; he could have pressed me to the floor and instead pressed me upward.
The air stilled.
A demon with wings stepped forward, her face shrouded, the robe of her rank so dark it seemed to eat the light around it.
She began to speak.
She spoke in an unknown language, and the bond translated it as sensation: the story of a realm, the story of an age, the story of a prince who had never asked, a king who had never given, a city that had been waiting for a single crack in the marble for a thousand years.
As she spoke, the pillar behind the throne brightened.
As she spoke, the other three women came forward, one by one, and each set a hand at the arm of her demon.
Lydia took Wrath’s hand; Nora took Greed’s; Rachel, who trembled but did not flinch, placed hers in Envy’s and did not let go. The four of us faced the dais, the audience, the entire history of the city.
The demon spoke on.
She called my name.
I went forward.
Lucan stayed behind, as the custom demanded.
I walked up the steps, carrying the boots, and I set them, not at the king’s feet, but on the obsidian at the center of the platform. I did it without bowing, without crouching, without the old apology. I looked him in the eyes.
The king smiled—just.
He said nothing.
The demon spoke a final phrase. The gold in the pillar blazed, so bright it hurt, and then it sealed.
I turned.
Lucan was at the foot of the dais.
I reached for him. Not the old reach—timid, outstretched, waiting to be batted away—but a confident reach, palm up, knowing he would take it.
He did.
The bond at my wrist went white-hot.
He knelt at my side, on the stone. He looked up at me. He took my hand in both of his.
