42. The Law of Eight
The Law of Eight
The route to the Pouring of Grace wound through half the Jade Lattices. The passage of the Resh’Agar and his Sokar could have been a procession of its own. They moved at an unhurried pace—time itself bending around their regal forms.
They walked through corridors of polished stone where Polis light caught on gold filigree and tall panels of carved crystal and glass.
Attendants moved ahead to clear the way, their hands shaping respectful signs, their eyes flicking from the Resh’Agar’s towering form to the Sokar at his side.
Behind them trailed Lu’ma in formal regalia; rich browns, deep purples, and gold trim edging her long pointed hood.
Auryn's thoughts hummed with worry and frustration through the Bond.
Holding an event like this seems improper considering the chaos still unfurling in the Han. I’d rather be in those temples…
Kailorien's Bond-thoughts soothed her. I know, starlight. But we must tend the fires here in the Lattices as well as those on the streets. Appointment of a new Companion does not happen often.
Auryn was ready to answer him when her left sandal caught and pulled—just enough for the thin strap at her ankle to give with a soft snap.
She did not stumble. She did not pause. But the loss of the strap left the sandal loose on her foot, and each step after that threatened to slide it off entirely.
She adjusted her stride, shifting her weight so the heel stayed anchored, the motion invisible to anyone not watching her legs.
Kailorien’s gaze remained fixed forward, the hard line of his jaw unreadable. Good. He hadn’t noticed. She didn’t want to add to his worries.
The sandals and gown had been delivered late, mere hours before the ceremony.
The Lustrate’s messenger had blamed the Blightsphere explosion for the delay, but Auryn knew better.
Accidents happened in Krystopolis, but the timing of this was too precise, the fault too petty.
Zeera. She could almost taste the satisfaction the woman would feel if Auryn faltered in front of the gathered sponsors.
‘Look at the shapeless Sokar stumble,’ she would laugh. ‘Perhaps her feet are too small even for our Crafters to accommodate.’
On reflex, Auryn smoothed her expression into a mask of practiced serenity, spine straight, head inclined at the dignified angle protocol demanded.
Her gown was a vision of white silk and gold embroidery, each seam laid in the Lustrate’s practiced hands.
Unlike the gowns before it, a spill of black threaded through the train and collar—deliberate and unmistakable.
The Resh’Agar’s colors, worked into her own.
The choice had been hers, and witnessing the pleasure in Kailorien’s gaze—the heat of pride—had been worth the extra Gleams and bribery it had cost her.
They reached the reception hall, the air thick with incense and the familiar burn of ceremonial Sahtra smoke.
Guests in layered finery turned to watch their approach, heads bowing in formal deference.
Auryn’s train whispered over the mosaic floor as they crossed to the far archway, the one leading to the balcony where the ceremony would take place.
Beyond, the marble gave way to the dais and the open arc of the balconies.
The beat of the ceremonial drums lit the surrounding Polis, its light flickering off inlaid patterns on the floor.
The Pouring of Grace was already in motion, the rhythm slow and hypnotic.
Though, something was different today. The balcony was covered.
Posts of crystal had been set into the marble floor and a canopy strewn with blinking Polis lights drawn across the area.
Gauzy curtains wound around the perimeter, blocking the view of the city below.
Only faint light from the Mirror Shafts at the city’s heart bled through the fabric.
Auryn bristled. They’ve hidden the reality they do not wish to see. I suppose someone determined that the view of the destroyed Han district would spoil the ceremony.
Easy, sweetfire. Your magic stirs with your anger, and these fools are undeserving of it.
Then distract me.
How should I do that? Should I claim your lips here for all to see?
She hesitated, trying to keep her gaze forward, to control the small shift in her breath.
Was he serious? She didn’t answer, and he must have felt the stillness in her hand, because his fingers closed over hers in a deliberate squeeze.
His familiar warmth bled through the cold armor, steady and unyielding, anchoring her in place.
Heat rushed to her ears before she could stop it.
Careful, Sokar…your blush is a gauntlet thrown down in challenge.
Her spine stiffened. You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.
I haven’t made one yet, but this one…I will.
She stole a glance at him, and her feet slowed their cadence. His blue eyes wrapped her in warmth and safety as surely as the gauze cocooned the balcony.
You’ll what?
His gaze was still. Unapologetic. Certain. I will claim my Sokar. For all to see.
Auryn’s ears still burned. Slowly, to avoid attracting too much attention, she turned back to face the crowd.
I’ll wait, then. For you, I’ll always wait.
The vow was a steadying warmth, flowing through her from hand to heart.
He did not promise idly—never had—and the quiet conviction in his voice was more than enough.
Every step forward was lighter than the last as she moved in a current he commanded.
Her pulse no longer raced from nerves but from anticipation, each beat keeping time with the slow, hypnotic drums.
And so, the Resh’Agar and his Sokar stepped into the ceremony.
Kailorien’s presence parted the crowd as they walked onto the balcony, all eyes drawn to the black aethersteel of Morvane—and to the Sokar at his side, white and gold streaked with his color.
The Resh’Agar held out his hand beside him, the Sokar’s delicate palm resting just atop his gauntlet.
A dove's wing resting on the gauntlet of a death-bound god.
Whispers rippled outward. Hands flew up in signs speaking of awe and respect, 'The Child and the Arm, united. This is a blessing from the Destroyer. Surely, He has blessed us.'
The ceremony hall was a prism of light and shadow, each tiered balcony crowded with silks, beads, and the heavy perfume of burning Sahtra.
The low, steady thrum of ceremonial drums matched the pace of the Attendants moving in a slow circuit around the central dais, carrying pots of hot water used to brew the hot drinks served to the guests.
Auryn’s train swept the marble, her posture set to the precise angle etiquette demanded.
Every eye followed them—every Councilor, every Companion, every sponsor who had found a way to secure a place close to the dais.
The new Companion stood there, the other seven surrounding her. The Law of Eight once more upheld.
Dressed in beautiful pink and gold silks and veils, black hair and green eyes gleaming, she stood as a pillar to Krystopolitan perfection.
She was taller than Auryn expected. Rumor had painted her as ‘too young’, and Auryn had imagined someone less regal.
She did possess the softness of youth about her face, her trembling hands telling of a lack of confidence despite her mask.
She looks lost. Like a girl in the forest.
Standing among wolves is not as easy task, as you well know.
Kailorien and Auryn took their seats at the highest tier.
A divan had been arranged for them specifically, decorated in cushions of white, gold, black, and crimson.
An ornate Sahtra stand was wheeled to their table, two large hoses attached to the base.
Lu’ma examined it thoroughly, though she was well aware that neither of them enjoyed the smoke.
Attendants filled their table with food and brought cups of wine. Auryn didn’t touch a thing, and some whispered that it was her divinity which kept her from eating at any such event.
'The Sokar does not require mortal sustenance,' someone signed to her left. 'The Child of the Void rises above us all. '
Kailorien didn’t miss a beat.
You should eat, love. You’ve been working yourself to the bone. You need to keep up your strength.
The worry in his words both warmed and singed. Auryn considered a lie, but then thought better of it.
For a—long time—Zeera liked to hex my food at proceedings like this one. Since then, my appetite has vanished.
The look he gave her, piercing and sharp, crushed her chest like a stone.
None would dare to tamper with your meal when you sit beside the Resh’Agar.
She placed her hand over his without meeting his gaze.
I will eat. In our chamber. Lu’ma already arranged to set aside a meal for me.
From that moment on, they did not get another chance to speak again. Councilors, guests, and priests approached their table. Some with gifts, others with requests for topics to be taken to the next session in the Axis Hall.
When the lights were dimmed, the drums changed their beat.
The Companions came forward and began to dance, showing off the flexibility of their beautiful lithe forms. Sunlight was a precious commodity in Krystopolis.
Sun-kissed skin was a sign of rank, and each of the Companions possessed a complexion speaking of days spent in sunlight, basking in its warmth.
Each woman had taken care to rub shimmering cream onto her arms and shoulders, to choose only the finest veils, to have her Attendants arrange rich black hair into perfect falling waves.
Their dance was seduction. Worship. An appeal to their Resh'Agar.
During Estar, the order in which he chose to take their mana determined stipend, favor, political standing.
And so they danced, looked into his glowing blue eyes, showed off endless hours they'd put into practice for this one single moment.
Not for the first time, Auryn pitied them. Hated them. Envied them.