Page 37 of House of Dusk

SEPHRE

T he wind caught at Sephre’s hair and whipped her gray robes against her legs as she crested the stone-carved steps.

The summit was utterly bare. There were no golden ornaments, no rich tapestries.

Even so, her breath always caught at the sight of the enormous boulder perched there.

A great crack split the stone, cleaving it into two equal halves.

And through that fissure blazed the holy flame.

A pressure hovered in the air. A feeling of being watched, as if this bare stony bowl was the navel of the universe.

Sephre put the setting sun behind her and faced the burning channel.

Eight and a half years ago she had taken a single step into the blaze.

Crimson flames danced over her skin, anointing her a red sister.

A second step, four years ago, had made her a yellow sister.

But only the agia could take a third step, into the blue heart of the flame.

Sephre thought of the fragile form lying in the infirmary. When Halimede died, Beroe would be the next. She would stand here, in this exact spot, and take three confident steps forward. Or maybe she would go slowly. The woman did love a dramatic moment.

Either way, the dagger would not remain hidden much longer, if it was here.

If . That was the question.

She had to learn the answer. But the flames exacted a price.

The pure light of this holy fire would expose every corner of her soul.

All the places she had stuffed tight with her old shames and sorrows.

All the poisoned flesh of her soul that she could not wash clean, no matter how many tonics she brewed, no matter how many ills she soothed. No matter how she tried to forget.

She had done it before. She could do it again. Maybe it would even be easier, this time. Sephre sucked in a breath of the chill mountain air and stepped forward.

Crimson light curled around her. At first, instinctively, she flinched from it.

Wary of what it might awaken. But she had passed this challenge before.

All that came to her within the red flames were dim voices murmuring in a distant room, while her father sang a lullaby, the one she liked best, about a lost sheep and a faithful hound. Her eyes stung. Her chest stung. Papa .

Another step. Yellow light veiled her world. She was out in a flower-spangled meadow, racing through the tall grasses, breathless with laughter as a woman with merry brown eyes chased her. You can’t run from the tickle monster!

Sephre breathed deep. So far, so good. But what lay before her now was a trial she had never endured.

The blue flame. It was like staring into an endless summer sky, with no cloud or bird to hook her gaze.

A sky that would suck her in, split her open and expose her stinking entrails to the sun.

But maybe she didn’t need to go farther.

She pressed one palm against the wall, feeling for any recess, any hiding place.

Gingerly, she slid her hand along the cracked stone, closer and closer to the wall of blue. A single spark licked her fingertips.

The blood slicks the stones beside the wall, thick and dark. At first, she thinks she can stop it. She calls for Boros to give her the small kit, tears through it for bandages. Her fingers leave red smears everywhere. Zander gives another agonized groan. It echoes, too loud.

“They’re going to hear,” whispers Boros. “We need to keep moving. The mission—”

“I know.” But Zander is all she has left.

Calchas died two weeks ago, caught by a Bassaran arrow because he was too damned tired to keep his head down.

Vyria is in the healer’s tent with a shattered knee.

Boros is a good soldier—they all are, the last of the Seventh—but they don’t have a piece of her soul, like Za nder.

Sephre bit down on her lip, pain bringing her back to herself, shoving the memory aside. Inch by inch her fingers crept deeper. The fire gnashed at her. She was kindling, she was paper and oil, she would burn away to ash. Acrid smoke slid down her throat.

Then, finally, a crack in the stone. She followed it, heart thrumming.

The bandages are already soaked through.

She smells something more than blood. Sees slippery coils of viscera, spilling out from the deep slice along Zander’s belly, where the Bassaran guard’s spear found the gap between backplate and breastplate.

He never buckled his armor tight enough.

He always said he was too fast, the enemy would never touch him, not with the winds of the steppes to protect him.

Another groan, almost a scream. Boros swears. “If they catch us, we’ll never make it to the cistern, captain.”

She doesn’t look at him. She leans closer, gripping a flailing hand. “Zander?” His fingers close over hers, clamping painfully. She grits her teeth, leaning close.

His blue eyes devour her, wide enough to drown in. “Please, Seph. Help me. It hurts. I don’t want to die. I haven’t...”

Her fingers tighten. She holds on, as if she can keep him in this world with the force of will alone.

Yes. Hold on. The flames were testing her, but she was stronger. The crack deepened, becoming a narrow recess. Her fingers dug into it, skittering over bare stone.

Then something else. Something familiar. A hilt, fitted neatly against her palm, as if the two had been wrought as one.

She hides the dagger against her side. “I’ll help you. I promise.” She keeps her voice calm, so that his blue eyes stay fixed on her. So he doesn’t see.

So that he gives only a small, soft sigh as her blade slices him free.

Her fingers spasmed. A guttural cry wrenched from her chest. She was floating outside herself. Then slamming back to painful reality, the cold stone of the summit hard and unyielding under her, her hands empty.

She hunched against the stones, listening to the rattle of her breath, rough with smoke and heat.

Her palm throbbed. She had felt the hilt against her skin.

That had been something more than memory.

The dagger was there, just as the codex promised.

Letheko, the blade of oblivion, killer of gods.

That should mean something, and yet her brain refused to move on.

To stop circling over the carcass of her old pain. Plucking at it. Feeding on it.

Hss . A shadow flickered in the corner of her eye. Focus returned with a rush of nerves and pulse and coiling strength. Sephre rolled herself upright. Golden flame wreathed her hands. Let the demons come. She could use a good fight.

But this was a different sort of demon.

Lacheron squinted, shielding his face from the blaze of light in her hands. “Peace, Sister Sephre.”

How long had he been lurking there, watching? Jaw clenched, she willed her flames back to a handful of sparks. Fought to make herself still and peaceful, no one of any interest.

“I...apologize,” she managed. “I thought...”

“There’s no need to explain,” he said. “I’m glad the ashdancers stand ready to smite the evils of the netherworld.

And you clearly still have the reflexes of a soldier.

” The intensity of his gaze was even more unnerving up close.

The weight of it made her chest ache, turned each breath into a struggle.

“You remember me,” she managed, stupidly.

“Not at first,” he said, sounding oddly chagrined.

“Fates. I should have. But you’ve changed.

” His not-gray, not-brown eyes continued to rove over her face, but she had the strangest sense that he wasn’t truly seeing her .

That she was only a mirror, reflecting something back at him. “Do you remember me?”

A jar, pressed into her hand. They will have no choice but to surrender, he says. They cannot endure without water. It will end the war, spare countless lives. It is all up to you, captain.

Sephre found her tongue. She wanted to spit, to clear the bile in her mouth. “I remember the siege,” she said, roughly. “I remember what you did.” She ought to bow, but her spine refused. He wasn’t her lord anymore.

Lacheron stared at her another endless heartbeat.

When he finally nodded, she couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, or relieved.

“I’m glad the Fates placed us here,” he continued.

“I’ve been wishing to speak with you further, captain—sister,” he corrected himself, glancing to the gold sparks flickering at her fingertips.

“But you seem to be an exceedingly busy woman.”

“Yes.” If he was going to give her such an opening, she would gladly take it. “In fact, I should be—”

Lacheron spoke over her. “I understand you were in the archives recently. Looking for information on one of the Embraced.”

Careful . Sephre tensed. If she’d had a sword, she would have drawn it.

“Yes,” she answered. “I was hoping to learn more about those who seek it. For...myself.”

She couldn’t tell if he believed her. He tilted his head slightly. “For yourself . Because you regret what you did in Bassara.”

Curse the man. He didn’t deserve to even ask such questions. But at least she had led him away from the hidden blade. And she would answer him truthfully.

“Yes.”

“Would you rather the war had gone on? That they died of hunger, slow and aching? That parents had to choose which of their children to feed?”

Sephre stiffened. “I’d rather it ended without anyone dying.”

Lacheron arched a brow, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. It was a look she’d seen before.