“And I do not lie to you,” Nyatrix murmurs, her body bowing around me. “But I do not blame you for being unsure of this new city, these new ways. If nothing else, do you think you might be able to trust in me?”
Her sharp, feral features have gone soft, the words spoken with an imploring sort of ache that I’ve felt a thousand times in my own body.
“Yes,” I reply hoarsely with a nod. “Yes, I think I can. You bore me across the Sundered Lands. Freed me from Lumendei.”
Nyatrix smiles, her head canted to one side. “No, little dove,” she murmurs, tucking a stray lock of hair back into my braid. “You freed yourself. You were gnawing at your chains long before I arrived.”
My chest soars with emotion as I look up at her. In the eyes of the Lupa Nox, I see myself—my true self—reflected. Not the pretty little doll that Lumendei’s society demanded, not the status-boosting wife Sergio wanted, nor the Spared pawn in Renault’s game. I want to stand on my tiptoes, to taste that blackberry mouth, to show herpreciselyhow beautiful I think she?—
Agrippina clears her throat. I jump as Nyatrix pulls back, just slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheekbones. She looks overher shoulder at Agrippina and laughs. The sound of it is wild, unmoored, a bird with no master.
“With Centurion Lucretia as our new Primus,” Agrippina says, snatching a bowl of carrots off the counter, “it would be for the best if youarethe Avatar, Ophelia. She may not grant you refugee stay otherwise.”
Nyatrix draws away from me with a sigh, beginning to pace. “I’m gone for a few fortnights and come back to an entirely changed Centuria,” she mutters, toying with the end of her braid. “I don’t even know if I can trust Maxima any longer, Agrippina.”
The knight turns to me. “The commander of the Liminalian army,” she explains, chewing on her lower lip. “I never had reason to doubt her. But she’s completely unwilling to investigate Lucretia. Convinced Decima, the previous Centurion Primus, died of natural causes.”
Agrippina scoffs at the hearth, wiping sweat off her forehead with the flat of her arm. I try to organize this information in my mind, charting out rules and structures in much the same way I always had to in Lumendei if I wanted to survive. I tell myself I’m accustomed to this work even as my heart cries out with disappointment that perhaps it’s not so different here, after all.
“The new Centurion Primus would want me to be the Avatar?” I ask, stepping past Nyatrix to gather up the chopped heads of carrots.
“Yes,” Agrippina says, ladling a spoonful of soup and blowing on it. “I don’t think she believes in the Old Ways, but she understands their immense power among the people.”
My hip twinges as I nod, bundling up the greens for later use. “And how would such a thing be determined?”
I hear Nyatrix’s sigh before I realize she’s approached, gathering knives and stacking the boards we used to cut and mince. She digs a knuckle into her eye and leans back againstthe counter, facing out into the kitchen. “Do you know of the Votum?”
I shake my head, watching Agrippina sprinkle more of the blackened sea salt into the cauldron.
“It’s a promise that the Creatrixes made before they left Sylva,” the healer tells me over her shoulder. “Should a threat capable of destroying Liminalia ever arise, a safeguard left by the goddesses would activate.”
I frown. “We never learned of this in scholae.”
Nyatrix’s mouth curves with hollow amusement as she wipes down the knives. “What did you ever learn of Liminalia beyond that we were evil and wanted to kill you?”
“That is fair,” I concede as I retreat to the table, settling down into the chair. Because I feel like I actuallycan. Because I do not fear the judgment of the two women in this room—possibly for the first time in my entire life. I let out a sigh as the screeching pain in my limbs quiets to a throb.
“Please know I don’t believe any of this utter shit,” Nyatrix grumbles, reaching up into the open shelving for three wide, shallow bowls. The firelight gleams on the long braid that hangs down her back like a black silk tassel. “The Cult of the Mater Dea has long held that the Votum would manifest as two Avatars of the Creatrixes. A boon of Vitalia and Moryx’s power, infused into worthy individuals who showed great courage. Or two individuals the Creatrixes already chose eons ago. It’s unclear.”
“Nyatrix views this ambiguity as a sign of the Votum’s falsehood,” Agrippina says, taking a bowl that the knight hands her and filling it with soup. “The Cult sees it as the Creatrixes providing multiple avenues in which this great thing might come to pass.”
Silence fills the kitchen, broken only by a sudden gust of wind rattling the carved shutters like leaves.
“You do know,” I begin, folding my hands in my lap, “that I underwent the Baptisma, yes? That I pledged my soul to the First Son?”
Nyatrix throws one hand in the air as if to punctuate my words but says nothing. She accepts a full bowl of soup from Agrippina and brings it to me, sliding a worn spoon onto the table beside it.
“The Creatrixes work in mysterious ways,” Agrippina says from the hearth as she ladles out more soup. My stomach rumbles, but I want to wait until everyone is seated. “There is no reason you couldn’t be pledged to the First Son and not still be the Avatar. It certainly won’t stop Lucretia from wanting to test you before she makes a determination on your status here.”
I swallow and lean against the chair’s back, finding there’s little pain even with pressure on my wounds. “This test,” I begin, finding no other recourse, “is it dangerous?”
“No, it’s not,” Nyatrix says, her thunderstorm gaze meeting mine again. “Not at all. I promise.”
Unease twists deep in my belly. “How do you know?”
Nyatrix sinks into the chair next to me just as Agrippina approaches, pulling a chair from the wall. The three of us barely fit at the table, the knight’s knee pressing into mine. My head swims pleasantly. I cup my hands around the warm soup bowl, watching as Nyatrix and Agrippina exchange a long look.
Then Nyatrix heaves a sigh and sets her jaw. Silence stretches taut, building into something thick as fog and twice as heavy. The sweet, rich scent of the squash soup fills my nose, a comforting thing amidst all this strangeness. Almost as comforting as the warmth of Nyatrix’s limb against mine, the presence of Agrippina just across the table.
