Chapter 16
Syrena
Syrena followed Azarian as he slung Esmyra’s limp form over his shoulder. Her body dangled and swayed with each step while they made their way to the ritual.
When they finally reached the inner castle gardens, the moon hung low and full, casting silver light across the marble pathways and blooming lilies.
Candle flames flickered in deliberate circles throughout the space, merlights hovering just above them.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of night-blooming flowers and was quiet except for the low trickle of a nearby fountain.
Runes had been carved into the earth and lit with powdery red dust that pulsed faintly, mimicking the markings on Esmyra’s arms.
Syrena stepped through the hedges, her bare feet sinking into the lush grass before she halted.
After settling Esmyra in her chambers, Azarian had carefully laid the groundwork for everything needed. Syrena remained with her, directing her handmaiden, Briar, to dress and bathe her, preparing her body for the sacred binding.
Syrena wore robes of shimmering golds and warm corals, her long blonde hair wound with pearls and tiny starfish. It looked similar to what Briar dressed Esmyra in—a gown of vibrant blues and silvers, with tiny aquamarine stones threaded throughout her dark hair.
Azarian lowered Esmyra gently onto a bed of soft sea moss at the garden’s center, surrounded by a circle of black coral shards meticulously arranged to catch the moonlight.
Syrena knelt beside her sister, her fingers trailing over the damp curve of Esmyra’s cheek. “Wake,” she breathed, the word a lure wound tight with magic.
Esmyra’s lashes lifted slowly, her gaze unfocused.
Syrena’s hand came to cup her chin, tilting her face upward before she could even blink.
The moment their eyes locked, compulsion slid into the bond, reinforcing every thread until Syrena felt the satisfying shift as it tightened around Esmyra’s mind.
It’s working. Syrena couldn’t be bothered to hide her vicious smile as her magic held her sister’s conscience in a death grip, having no intentions of letting go.
“Can you hear me?” she murmured.
Esmyra’s eyes were unblinking, her lips parted. She gave a subtle nod.
Syrena straightened. “Good. Now you will follow my lead and do everything as told,” she instructed, pulling Esmyra to her feet.
She turned toward the marble path winding deeper into the gardens, and without hesitation, Esmyra trailed after her.
Azarian stepped forward then, one hand holding a bowl of herbs while the other held a chalice carved from bone, its surface etched with runes. They met him halfway to the middle, now standing in the center of the ceremonial altar.
Esmyra’s face was unnervingly still as she stood across from Syrena. Her gaze was fixed forward, her body absent of any movement save for the soft flutter of her hair in the wind as her tattoos cast her in a subtle, teal glow.
It made her look like some delicate painted statue. A depiction of a goddess instead of one in the flesh.
All it will take is one drink, one chant, and you’ll be exactly where I need you to be. Syrena’s thoughts curled around her mind like smoke.
Her eyes slid to the chalice, realizing everything she’d been working toward would all finally be over soon. A part of her, however, wanted to savor the unraveling, to watch Esmyra’s awareness bend and break beneath her hand now that she could be compelled.
But tonight was for sealing the bond, for making sure her sister could never again slip through her fingers.
The altar between them was draped in black silk, haloed in the cold light of the moon. Syrena watched as Azarian placed the bone-carved chalice on the small table, and her brows furrowed when she peered inside the cup. A thick mixture revealed itself in the subtle merlights hovering above them.
“It’s necessary for the ritual,” Azarian started, observing her. “Black silt dredged from the deepest trenches of the ocean, where no sunlight has ever reached, and salt crystals ground with herbs from my apothecary to tie it all together.”
“And the ingredient to activate it?” Syrena asked.
Azarian grinned as a single dark tear, resembling blood, slid down his cheek. He lifted the chalice to his chin and allowed that tear to fall into the mixture. “Taken care of.” He winked, blinking away the remaining darkness from the tear staining his eye.
Syrena’s brow lifted. Azarian had been somewhat secretive regarding everything necessary for the ritual, telling her it couldn’t be activated without a minor sacrifice from him in order for the magic to work.
“A tear?” she challenged.
Azarian nodded. “Indeed, My Goddess. It’s a symbol of Malya’s power. I will explain later, when time is no longer of the essence. Now please, both of you step up so we may begin.”
A calmness settled into Syrena as both sisters did as instructed. They each approached slowly in tandem, their dresses trailing behind them and gliding over the grass.
Azarian nodded to her. “You know what must be done.”
Syrena turned to Esmyra and lifted her hand, the soft tip of her fingers elongating into sharp black talons. “You will follow my lead and mimic everything I do.”
She dragged the edge of a talon across her palm. Blood welled immediately, its dark crimson hue shimmering before she held it over the cup. Her blood fell into the onyx mixture like drops of flame. It hissed, spiraled, and smoked, reacting instantly as the concoction fused.
Esmyra lifted her hand as ordered, allowing her own talons to slip free. Staring down, her eyes locked on the scar across her palm. It was the scar she’d received from slicing her hand with the blade only weeks before, when they were reclaiming their divinity.
It was as though recognition stirred in her mind, tugging insistently at the edges of her subconscious.
Syrena sensed the shift in her immediately.
The thread between them, once taut and thrumming with her control, wavered.
It was subtle, but the looseness in the tether made her stomach tighten.
The sensation was like water slipping through her fingers, and her magic instinctively reached to catch it before it fell away completely.
Her heart gave one sharp beat. Not yet.
“Look at me, Esmyra,” Syrena commanded softly, her voice curling through the night air, desperately clutching her twin’s mind.
Syrena stepped closer, her power coiling through her words as her irises dilated to reinforce that hold.
“There’s nothing there worth remembering,” she murmured, letting her magic pulse through each syllable, pushing away the scar’s meaning until it became no more than a mark her flesh bore.
Esmyra blinked once, her breath evening out, and the thread pulled tight once more.
Syrena let the tension settle, the satisfaction of control returning like a steady heartbeat. Only then did she say, “Continue.”
Esmyra nodded once, then sliced her talon through the heel of her palm, directly over her scar. Blood welled, and she lifted her hand over the cup to let it fall.
The moment her blood struck the mixture, mingling with Syrena’s, the contents blazed with both gold and silver light.
Azarian looked relieved as that vicious grin crept back up Syrena’s lips.
“Now, both of you take hold of the chalice,” Azarian instructed.
The sisters reached for the vessel in tandem before lifting it together, raising it toward the moon. The garden fell into an eerie stillness.
“Now repeat after me,” Azarian said. “I give you my soul in shadow and silence. In blood and flesh. I bind my breath to fate and to the soul who drinks with me.”
Syrena sucked in a shuddering breath, chills rushing along her spine as she began to taste her vengeance.
And then in unison, the twins repeated, “I give you my soul in shadow and silence. In blood and flesh. I bind my breath to fate and to the soul who drinks with me.”
“By the silt of the deep and marrow of gods. Let what is torn be tethered. Let what is lost be shared.” Azarian’s voice radiated with power as he spoke the ancient rite, and Esmyra and Syrena repeated his words once more.
Syrena’s pulse thrashed in her ears, her vision blackening at the edges as the magic took its course.
“Now, this last chant, you will include your goddess names, and repeat ‘I give my strength. I give my skin. To those who drink the blood of my blood. If I fall weak, may she rise. If she falters, let me soar.’ And then you may drink once the chalice answers your call.”
Syrena repeated his words without hesitation. And then their eyes were on Esmyra.
She could see the doubt flickering in Esmyra’s eyes, perhaps even a little fear as her consciousness continued to try and push through. The tiny crack in her armor was beautiful in its weakness.
“Let her taste fear. Let her drown in it,” Naerysa hissed.
Because when Esmyra falls, it won’t just be her soul that breaks—it will be hers and Kaelypso’s all at once.
“Do it, Esmyra.” Syrena demanded.
“I give my strength. I give my skin. To those who drink the blood of my blood. If Kaelypso falls weak, may Naerysa rise. If Naerysa falters, let Kaelypso soar.”
Syrena’s smile curled wickedly from across the altar.
Esmyra stared down at the bone-carved cup before lifting it. The rim brushed her lips, and then she tipped her head back and drank. Her throat bobbed, and a tremor passed through her body.
Then she passed the chalice to Syrena.
The carved runes were now stained crimson from their blood, glowing faintly, while the liquid inside possessed a dark, almost black shimmer. She sucked in a sharp breath and took one long, slow sip, not letting a single, remaining drop go to waste.
The merlights and flames of the surrounding candles all lit in a vibrant surge.
The taste hit her like a wave. It was sharp and electric, like salt and metal and lightning. Her heart convulsed. Her throat burned. Every vein in her body throbbed. Something ancient and foreign slithered down her spine like a current catching hold.
It was like drowning yet breathing in the richest air all at once.
The cup fell from her hands, thudding softly into the moss. Her knees hit the ground next—at the same time as Esmyra’s, the ritual’s magic not taking place until both souls drank from the cup.
Then agony ran wild through her, blooming like fire beneath her skin.
Syrena cried out and clutched her wrist as it burned, but not just on the surface. It was deeper—bone-deep—as if something was being carved into the essence of her very soul.
She watched, gasping, as a mark seared into existence. First, a shimmer beneath the skin, then glowing lines erupting across her flesh in brilliant gold and black.
Two long serpentine dragons coiled around each other, their scaled bodies twisting in opposite directions like a mirrored dance. Between them, floating at the center, was a glowing sun and a dark crescent moon. Symbols of the light and the dark. Of day and night. Of the surface and the depths.
It was then Syrena realized the dragons represented her and Esmyra.
She couldn’t breathe.
What the fuck is going on? This mark wasn’t part of the plan.
Her mouth opened in a silent scream as the pain seared to something nearly unbearable. And in the back of her mind, the soft yet cruel voice of Naerysa whispered, “And now we are bound.”
Syrena’s pulse pounded against the new brand that marked her skin, as if trying to escape it.
But then the merlights and candle flames dimmed, and the agony tearing through her slowly fizzled away. The mark, however, remained, raw and gleaming on her wrist like a wound that would never fully close.
The air was thick with silence, broken only by the echo of their ragged breathing.
The rush of magic pulsed beneath her skin like a relentless tide, a warmth that vibrated through her body as she knelt, swaying gently. She felt hollowed out and overflowing all at once, as if her soul had escaped and returned within a matter of minutes, still pressing against her prison of flesh.
She pushed herself to her feet, her lips parting as she steadied herself against Azarian’s shoulder.
He grinned. “It worked, My Goddess.”
Across from her, Esmyra looked flushed and dazed as she pushed herself to her feet.
Syrena glanced down at her sister’s wrist, where the skin was still hot and shining, bearing the same mark as her. Only it was no longer a glowing wound but inked into her flesh like a brand etched by the gods. And one of the sea dragons stood out above the other.
Esmyra’s was silver. Bright and blinding, like moonlight on the sea. She cocked her head to the side, her brows furrowing as her gaze drifted to the moon marked above its head, the crescent now a vibrant gold.
That’s interesting.
When Syrena glanced back down at her own wrist, her lips parted in awe. The same design now curled into her skin, only her sea serpent—the opposite one to Esmyra’s—glimmered with molten gold, while the sun above its head was that vibrant silver.
Syrena’s eyes burned with irritation as she stared down at the intricate tattoos now etched into both of their skin. The marks pulsed faintly, alive with magic—something she certainly hadn’t anticipated.
Turning sharply, she fixed Azarian with a hard glare as she stormed up to him, shoving at his chest. “What is this mark?”
He nodded slowly. “The magic sears itself onto the vessels to anchor the bond.”
Syrena began to pace, her hands clenched at her sides. “And how do you suppose we spin this? It’s not as if she won’t fucking see it.”
“We’ll tell her a half-truth,” he suggested. “That the soul bond was the only way to save her when the velsinyte was too deeply embedded.”
“Was this your plan all along?” Syrena took a step back, considering as her eyes roamed over him and then her mark. “It’s genius. And then the true reasoning for the mark will be our little secret.”
Azarian bowed his head slightly, pleased. “You forget who’s taught you such things over the centuries. The plan is foolproof, and now that the bond is set, nothing will be able to stop it.”
Her expression hardened. “If she gets too curious before the time is right, we’ll lock her away.”
He nodded gravely. “We’ll keep her contained.”
And soon the sea will be mine. Syrena’s lips curled into a cold smile as her fingers brushed along the edge of her mark.