Page 10 of The Frost Witch (The Covenants of Velora #1)

Darkness consumed me. My senses welcomed it back as an old friend, my eyes adjusting easily to the lack of light.

My other senses sharpened, the gifts of the Dark God thrumming to life in my veins.

Frankincense and palmarosa filled my nostrils, burning in the shallow stone altars to each of the gods.

Near, something dripped. Far, something different flowed.

The dripping came from me, the frost and snow on my clothing melting in the heat of the temple.

My sight cleared more with every second, but I didn’t need sight to recognize the source of that flowing sound.

Too thick to be water. And even the burning frankincense and palmarosa could not cover the coppery tang.

At the center of the temple, a single enchanted fountain ran with the blood of those who had come before—those who had attempted and failed the gates.

My hands tightened to fists, my pointed nails scraping across the stone floor before sinking into my palms. But the noise was overshadowed by hurried footsteps.

“Get up,” a male voice hissed.

Even with the sparse light creating a silhouette, I was able to make out his features.

His thick black curls created a halo around his thin face, a riot of freckles dancing across his golden- brown cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

His voice didn’t quite match his face—it had dropped into the heavier tones of maturity, while his face remained trapped in the fervor of adolescence.

He could not have been more than twenty—so young.

Which must have accounted for his idiocy when his long fingers curled around my upper arm.

“Get your hands off of me,” I snarled, ripping my arm away. I was still on the fucking ground, and though he knelt over me, he hardly had the advantage.

The young priest flinched but didn’t back away.

“Please, get up.” He wrung his hands, whipping his gaze over his shoulder and then back to me.

He was more scared of whatever awaited deeper in the temple than he was of me, I realized. An unhinged laugh bubbled up in my chest.

“Please,” he said again, his gaze spearing for mine. His amber eyes were soft, pleading. Begging, actually.

I swallowed as I braced my arms beneath me. What was more terrifying in the temple than a witch?

“Hurry,” he urged, checking over his shoulder again.

I’d never seen a priest act so strangely—not that I’d spent any time with one in the last three hundred and seventy-seven years. Most priests and priestesses considered witches a dangerous aberration. The Dark God had broken with the other six gods in creating us.

He nodded and exhaled as I gained my feet, my cold, wet garments scraping uncomfortably over my skin as I straightened and shook loose the remainder of the snow.

“Put your hand out,” he instructed. I did as he asked, but I didn’t remove the fingerless leather glove that covered my palm. He eyed it, as if he’d ask me about it, but wisely decided otherwise.

“I have to touch you now,” he said.

I lifted one eyebrow.

“It is required for the Oath of Atonement.” Another furtive look over his shoulder. “It’s required,” he repeated.

His eyes whipped to the two males I hadn’t noticed before, one positioned on the inside of the doors. Muscular, well-fed, and armed to the teeth. The threat was clear enough—offer my hand willingly for this oath or the guards would force my hand. Quite literally.

I exhaled between my teeth but nodded.

If the priest noticed how cold my skin was, he didn’t show it.

He probably assumed it was from the frigid day outside, not the power that simmered beneath my skin.

He did not react to the pointed nails, either.

Not that surprising, considering that all the other covens had fled Velora years ago.

The odds of this young human male having ever encountered a witch were next to nothing.

He dragged his finger over my palm in a practiced movement, touching seven pre-determined points around the edge before spiraling his fingertip in toward the center.

“Repeat after me,” he said. “I offer up this mortal frame, in storm, frost, or cleansing flame. Not for glory, nor for grace, but to purify the past I face.”

Both of my brows rose this time. I was no mortal. I guess the gods hadn’t expected a witch to attempt the gates, though plenty of fae had in the first century of the curse. But I didn’t question him. I repeated the words.

The young priest nodded along with each one, the tension in his shoulders easing as I spoke.

“Good,” he murmured to himself. “Judge me, break me, take my breath. Let my sacrifice outweigh my debt. So swear I now, in endless night. My life for balance, wrong for right.”

I repeated each word. On the last, a great exhale whooshed from the young man’s chest and he released my hand.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “I should have been at the door to greet you. It’s the job of the acolytes. But I—” He shook his head, saving me from whatever plaintive excuse he’d offer. “No matter. It’s done. You’ve taken the oath.”

An acolyte, not a priest , my mind corrected the understanding it was rapidly constructing of the temple, the gates, and their rituals.

The acolytes met supplicants at the door and required them—by force if necessary—to recite this Oath of Atonement.

I hadn’t felt the burn of power at his words, so it was not a spell.

Priests and priestesses did not possess magic or power of their own.

Any that was wrought, like the blood bubbling continuously in that foundation several yards away, was an act of one or more of the Seven Gods.

At some point, I’d receive food and a bed.

That was the promise made to all supplicants who entered the temple in advance of attempting the gates.

This temple belonged to the first of the seven, the Mercy Gate.

How long before I’d be forced out the rear door of the temple and through the gate?

What other rituals would I endure before?

How much rest and food—how much would they fatten me up before the slaughter?

A thousand questions, and yet I asked not a single one.

My stomach grumbled, so I conceded on one point. “Where is the food?”

The acolyte’s face broke into a wide smile.

Dark God save me. The boy had dimples. And now that he’d accomplished his duty, the worry had melted away.

The priest or priestess who oversaw the temple must have been a strict disciplinarian, if the fear he’d displayed moments before was any indication—and such a departure from his usual manner.

He tilted his head toward the center of the temple to indicate I should follow him.

“There are seats around the fountain. The other acolytes will wait upon you.” He wrinkled his nose. “Try to ignore the blood. Food isn’t allowed by the altars.”

The scent of the fountain intensified as we moved away from the burning altars that lined the perimeter of the temple.

“I don’t mind blood,” I said.

He looked at me again, closer this time.

But still, no alarm bells sounded in his mind, the wide smile now softer but completely unconcerned.

Most of the supplicants who entered the temple were starving; they wouldn’t be much of a threat.

I was bigger than most, even with my short stature.

My curved hips and soft stomach never seemed to change, no matter what food was available.

Another gift from the Dark God, I supposed.

Or would it be a hindrance at the gate? No one knew what the gates entailed. Each was different, and rumors said that some even varied depending on who was attempting to pass through them at any given time.

Still, I didn’t ask. Not that the acolyte gave me much of an opening.

“It has been slow the past week, but you are the seventh to enter the temple, so she’ll send you through the gate tomorrow.”

Not much of a respite for the weary. But I dissected the other information he’d offered up in that singular sentence.

They waited until there were seven supplicants before advancing them to the Mercy Gate all at once.

I would have six competitors, and all of them had enjoyed more time in the warmth and security of the temple than I had, as the last to enter.

At least one had been there for a full week.

And she would be the one to send us through the gate—the superior who so terrified the acolyte was female. A priestess.

“After you eat, you must visit each of the altars, then you can do what you want until the evening.” He leaned in, lifting his hand to cup his mouth as he added a conspiratorial whisper. “Most come back for more food.”

A smile tugged at my lips. He was probably this loquacious with every supplicant who entered the temple. But it was so refreshing. I hadn’t seen a smile like that in… decades. Maybe even centuries. I did not have a heart to warm, but something in my stomach reacted. It was probably just the hunger.

The gurgling of the blood fountain intensified as we neared the center of the temple.

It rose far above our heads toward the domed roof, taller than the height of two men standing on one another’s shoulders.

Taller even than the massive brute from the tavern—who was somewhere in this temple. He’d entered only minutes before I did.

My eyes snapped down from the flowing scarlet fountain to the ring of stone benches surrounding it.

The spindly man who’d entered earlier that morning sat far to the right, stuffing gobs of food down his throat and chewing with his mouth open.

His eyes darted between the blood fountain and the wide-shouldered man sitting a few feet to his left.

But that man hardly seemed to notice the cowering supplicant on his right.

All of his attention was focused on his left, on a lithe female who speared chunks of meat with her dagger before bringing them to her mouth.

Her dark hair was cut unusually short for a woman, falling in uneven layers that revealed her ears.

Her pointed ears.

Fae.

Rage spiraled through my body, up from the pits of my stomach, through my chest, into my arms as the anger gave way to power and my mouth opened on a spell to freeze the blood in her very veins.

But before I could lift my hands or curl my tongue around that first syllable, a dark mass slammed into me.