Page 31

Something flashes in Morin’s eyes. It’s fear yet not fear of me, rather fear of her plans being disrupted. The sound of someone laughing heartily breaks through the tension. A laugh that’s become familiar to me. Sitri’s .

“You all don’t actually believe that, do you? She doesn’t even have a crown, Soothsayer.”

“Not a literal crown—m—metaphorical. She’s been given a position of power,” he shouts anxiously to the attendees.

“She has no power,” Sitri snaps. “Unless you consider the ability to annoy me a power.”

A few quiet laughs emit from around the room.

“S-she will beckon the end—“

“I promise you, she’s harmless. Anyone who believes she isn’t I encourage you to come and speak five words to her,” he says raising his voice to address the room. “It won’t take long to see the only one she poses a danger to is herself.” He chuckles and Morin laughs with him this time, coaxing out more laughter from around the table.

My cheeks burn hotter.

“It’s her! I saw it!” the Soothsayer says, voice rising in agitation. “She’s been sent here to destroy us!”

“The noughts have no such plan,” Morin says calmly. “That was evident when we took out half their soldiers on the battlefield.” Morin rises from her seat and gestures to the Masks standing guard at the door. “Remove him.”

“Wait, you’re not listening--” he says frantically.

“We’re not sullying our alliance because of old, paranoid sayings. This nought is no threat to us.”

“The signs are clear! She will bring ruin.” He fights weakly against the Masks pulling him toward the door. “THE NOUGHT SHALL BEAR THE CROWN OF FATE,” he screams. “THE MAGI’S FALL, THE FLOODS DEB—“ His words cut off with the slamming of the door behind him.

The guests quiet again until Sitri, who’s taken to looking up at me as if estimating me, breaks through the tension by chuckling again, stirring up another round of laughter. He bounds up the steps two at a time and takes his seat beside me. Once the room has returned to its normal volume, I sense his eyes searing into the side of my face.

What happened? He voices the words in my head because he doesn’t want to be seen speaking to me. I ignore him, eyes scanning the chamber without seeing anyone or anything.

Pet?

When I don’t oblige him with a response, he says it again out loud.

“I don’t know,” I snap, refusing to meet his gaze. His chair screeches against the floor as he slumps back into it with a sigh. The minutes pass painstakingly slowly as plates are emptied and refilled. Feasting, laughing, occasionally gawking. I no longer even have a glass to busy myself in.

A middle-aged woman with long, dark curly hair and bright green eyes makes her way up the steps. Age lines her face until she beams and the wrinkles seem to fade. Sitri who’d taken to staring off into the distance with a palm under his chin, sits up straight.

She does a little hop, her exuberance falling off her in waves, and reaches out. I’m shocked when Sitri does the same, taking her hands into his own as his brows wrinkle in confusion. “Sitri, look at you.” She leans over the table and presses a kiss to each of his cheeks before steadying her hands across his shoulders as if to get a better look at him.

“Delyah…I didn’t even know you were here.” He surveys the room. I follow his gaze out to the unnerving stare of Morin. “W—what are you doing here?”

Delyah huffs in feigned offense. “You think I would miss your wedding?”

“Well, considering…” Sitri waves a hand and I interpret those two words to their core. Considering he’s marrying a nought. Considering this isn’t really real .

“Look at you,” she says again. “Your mother would be so proud.” She beams, trailing her hands back up to cup his face. Sitri jerks his head and scoffs softly.

Delyah frowns before turning her gaze on me. She bats at his hand. “Aren’t you going to introduce me? I promise he was raised better than this. He forgets himself.”

Sitri shifts with bemusement. “Um, Delyah, this is…Syra. Syra this is my aunt Delyah.”

The next thing I know she’s cupping my face and pressing a kiss to each of my cheeks too. “Absolutely beautiful,” she says, pleased. “You will balance him out perfectly, I think. And straighten him out too.” She casts an admonishing look at Sitri. Heat flames at my face. She’s making this feel…very real. Sitri seems as embarrassed by it as I do—if not more. She finally frees me and straightens as she turns her attention back to him.

“Firebranded,” she says in awe.

He groans, tipping his head to his hand.

“It’s a good thing, Sitri,” she scolds.

He peels his hand down, shifting uncomfortably as he steals the briefest glimpse of me. “Is it?”

“Did you see it for yourself?”

“Ah, yeah, I saw it,” he admits meekly.

“The both of you?” She regards me and I turn to Sitri uncertainly.

“She saw it.”

“You didn’t tell her what it means?”

“Delyah—“ He interjects scanning the room behind her. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

“Rubbish! She doesn’t scare me. Sitri, you must do right by her.”

He agrees distractedly, eyes still sweeping the room. Delyah positions herself in front of him to block his view. “Not her,” she says jerking her head back toward the middle table in disgust. ‘Her.” She gestures to me.

Sitri opens his mouth, closes it, and turns to look at me, his face genuinely curious and contemplative this time. I send him a meaningful glare that I don’t think he really even registers. His expression doesn’t harden, still holding my gaze as he utters out a determined, “I will.”

I want to shake my head or roll my eyes to signal to him that I think he’s full of utter bullshit. Since I’ve been explicitly forbidden from doing just that I merely look away.

Delyah grins. “Good.”

“But let’s talk later,” he pleads.

“Promise you’ll come and see me,” she demands. “Things are changing Sitri, I just haven’t pieced it all together yet. And, I worry about you.”

“I will,” he promises.

She pats his hand a couple times before making her way back down the stairs. I fight back the desire to peek at Sitri.

I’m still watching Delyah go, processing that strange interaction when another patron shuffles up the steps. I don’t pay him much mind, assuming he’s only going to wish his congratulations to Sitri as the others have. He beelines past Sitri and suddenly lunges across the table. I yelp, intending to flee, when my limbs lock to the chair. I’m not sure where he’d stashed the dagger but it’s in his hand now as he raises it above his head. One hand fists into the fabric at the front of my dress and he yanks me and my chair forward.

I tense, bracing myself for the piercing pain when his body is flung back only seconds before the dagger would’ve undoubtedly met my chest. He topples roughly down the steps, landing face down on the floor. He starts to pull himself back up and his limbs freeze.

I didn’t even notice Sitri make his way around me but then he’s there, heaving him up by the back of his tunic.

“DEATH TO THE NOU—“ he starts to scream. His words cut off mid-sentence, turning into a garbled grunt as his mouth clenches shut. The armored soldiers at the sides of the room advance forward and Sitri hands the offender off. His feet drag across the floor as they begin hauling him toward the door.

“Wait, bring him back,” Morin calls.

Sitri turns, his gaze zeroing in on me. He doesn’t look the least bit shaken as he strides back up the steps. The table had fallen over in the commotion and a couple sweeps of his hand later its back up. He taps a hand under my chin and inspects me, tension lining his jaw. The dāemon has ramped back up with the commotion, and I grit my teeth. Even more annoying…he was right. Someone did in fact try to lodge a knife between my ribs. “Happy to prove your point?” I mutter.

His face crumples, chest deflating with a puff. “No, I’m not happy about that pet.” He utters the words so quietly they’re almost indiscernible yet they’re spoken, not voiced into my mind. “I think I can get us out of here now.”

Thank God. We’re interrupted by Morin calling his name. The furrow of his brow deepens as he turns back.

Morin’s on her feet, the guards holding the now unconscious man not too far behind her. “It’s unacceptable someone has attempted the life of our new princess just after we’ve welcomed her into our kingdom. I think it's important we show her we’re devoted to her safety and our alliance with Eden is to be respected. Wouldn’t you agree, Cernunnos?”

The question sounds like some sort of trap and Sitri hesitates to answer. “I agree.”

“As a symbol of devotion to this marriage—you should be the one to exact retribution, don’t you think?”

Sitri’s shoulders stiffen and the tension in the room is palpable, eyes glued to him to see how it is he’ll respond. He glances back at me briefly before he quietly says, “I agree.”

An eerie quiet eats up the space as Sitri stalks forward and shuffles down the steps. He halts in front of the unconscious man’s limp form.

“Wait.” Morin’s cold voice cuts through as she turns her steely gaze on me. “Syra of Eden,” she addresses. “Your counterpart has offered to exact retribution for the attempt on your life. For you, he would take the life of a man. If you had the opportunity to show your commitment, that despite the Scion’s and the people of Samore’s mistrust of you, you welcome us fully, respect our traditions and gladly enliven yourself with our customs. If you had the opportunity to do that, you would take it, wouldn’t you?”

“I—“ I look at Sitri. His face remains solemn. He voices no answers in my head. No commands this way or that. I want to object and yet…

I promised to do as asked. “Yes.”

Morin’s mouth stretches into an unsettling slow grin. “Then I propose Blood of the Gods. ”

A chorus of gasps, murmurs and Magi repeating that foreign phrase echo through the chamber.

Aym promptly rises. “You said he would participate in the Rite,” he roars. “How will he do that if he is bound?”

“Let the Gods decide if it will bind.”

“Morin,” Sitri says. There’s none of the firm authority in his voice that I’m accustomed to instead it almost sounds like a plea. “Anthropophagic magic has been outlawed for centuries.”

Morin projects her voice across the space. “We refuse to use the magic the Gods used when they still walk here and wonder why they’ve abandoned us. What better way for Syra of Eden to assuage fears and distrust than by taking the Blood of the Gods herself just as Leda did.”

Her gaze falls around the room and the hushed voices rippling around the table start to grow more approving.

“Sitri.” She lifts a hand toward the guards holding the unconscious man. “Proceed.”

For a long moment, Sitri stands there, silent and unmoving. I scan the crowd, hunting for the only person that’s showed me anything resembling kindness, Sitri’s aunt Delyah. I find her face among the outskirts, pale and horrified. My trepidation increases tenfold.

Sitri’s steps are stilted when he finally moves forward. The sound of boots scuffing the floor echo throughout the otherwise silent space. I shift in my seat, anticipation brimming. I’m probably the only person here who doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.

He positions himself in front of the man that nearly lodged a knife in my chest.

“He needs to be awake,” Morin’s voice rings out.

“Morin…” Sitri heaves.

“It’s customary. Rouse him,” she demands to her guards.

One of the guards holding him waves a hand, casting a mist of water over the unconscious man. He gasps, eyes blinking rapidly as he fights against the guards holding him. Sitri steps forward.

“What’re you—“ he breaks off into another muffled grunt as his mouth is sealed shut once more. His grunts turn to frantic screams as Sitri lifts a hand, slides it into a whipping motion, and the man’s ribcage is split wide, revealing the bloody organs underneath. For a moment, the man is fully cognizant of what’s just happened, staring down at his mutilated body.

I stifle a gasp, heart trembling as blood puddles to the floor. Sitri reaches in and tugs something out. The man’s head falls slack to his chest.

Sitri turns slowly, his face pale as he makes his way back up the steps. A flick of his unbloodied hand conjures an empty plate on the table before me. I search his face for some kind of insight as to what’s happening. He won’t look at me. He slides a bloodied hand over the plate and drops something onto it.

I stare down at the bloody piece of meat, recognizing it only from an illustration, though it barely resembles the depiction I’m familiar with. A blobby and veiny mass of red. Large capillaries protrude from the top as blood forms a puddle around it.

It’s a heart.