62. The Forging
The Forging
The light of Sundralis crashed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I stumbled through the portal, cursing under my breath. Months in Draknavor's dim light hadn't prepared me for this assault. This wasn't natural sunlight—this was a godsdamned weapon, an aggressive display of divine ego made visible.
"It's..." Marx squinted beside me, her face twisted in discomfort.
"Obnoxious," I muttered. For a domain named after the sun, there was something deeply dishonest about this light. Like it was trying to bully you into submission. I found myself aching for Draknavor's honest darkness, for the shadows that never seemed afraid to be what they were.
"Olinthar has always valued appearances over substance," Xül murmured, voice low. He scanned the horizon with barely concealed contempt.
I followed his gaze. The citadel of Sundralis rose before us, all gleaming white marble and gold. My eyes watered anew. Every tower, every arch, every garden path flaunted a sterile flawlessness.
But there was nothing alive about it. Nothing free .
"This way." Aelix gestured toward the central spire.
My gut twisted. This was it. The culmination of everything that had happened since that terrible day in Saltcrest.
We walked along paths of winding pavement. Divine beings stopped to stare as we passed, their whispers trailing behind us. I kept my chin high, my spine straight. Didn't let their presence—or the hot brands of their gazes on my back—affect me.
"This isn't like the other Trials," Xül said softly, his shoulder brushing mine. "No viewing portals. Everyone who's anyone will be present in Sundralis today."
I let out a tight breath. "Naturally."
The citadel's interior was even more oppressive—soaring ceilings, walls of pristine white that made my eyes burn. Olinthar's face loomed from every fresco, every mosaic, every hanging. A perfect, benevolent mask.
Doors opened at our approach, swinging wide on silent hinges. The Ascension Chamber loomed before us. I halted at the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed.
The chamber was vast and circular, topped by a crystal dome that bent and refracted the already painful light. White marble pedestals stood at its center—four lonely islands in a sea of polished floor.
"That's where we'll stand?" Marx murmured beside me. "Like living statues?"
"It would seem so," I said, unable to keep the bite from my voice. The pedestals looked like altars. Like sacrificial stones. In a way, I supposed they were.
Around the chamber's perimeter, twelve ornate thrones formed a semicircle.
The Aesymar were taking their places—beings of such power that the air around them warped and shimmered.
My eyes found Vorinar first, the God of Fate, slouched on his throne, eyes glassy as he stared at nothing in particular.
So he'd shown up to this, but not to the meeting last night.
Beside him sat Davina. Next was Morthus.
For a brief second, his dark eyes met mine, and he managed a subtle nod.
I counted each one, my unease growing with every face, until I reached the central throne—larger than the others, crafted of gold and crystal. It sat empty.
Divine beings packed the chamber, their combined gazes raining down on the lower levels. Their voices rose and fell in excited waves, a ravenous ocean of sound.
"Vultures," Marx muttered.
"They've come to witness history," Aelix corrected mildly.
"Same difference." My eyes swept over the masses of immortals, searching for one face that actually mattered. And then—there. A flash of slicked midnight hair.
Thatcher.
He stood across the chamber in Chavore's colors, but there was no mistaking the fierce determination in his eyes as our gazes locked. For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
I was beginning to miss that carefree, easy smile he used to wear.
But we'd made it. Against impossible odds, we were both here. Both alive. We'd both changed in different ways since our time in Voldaris. I wasn't sure yet if it was for the better.
I felt a hand slide against the small of my back.
"You can go," Xül said, his voice ghosting across my ear. "There's time."
I glanced up, raising an eyebrow.
"Go," he repeated, nodding toward Thatcher. "The ceremony won't begin for a few minutes yet."
I pushed through the crowd, which parted reluctantly before me. As I approached, I saw that Thatcher wasn't alone. Chavore stood beside him, bedecked in war regalia that glinted blindingly under Sundralis's light. Beside him clung Elysia, her fingers possessively wrapped around Chavore's arm.
"Hey," Thatcher said, giving me a small smile.
"Well don't you look the part," I replied, keeping my voice light .
He huffed a laugh. "Figured you'd have gotten used to all this by now."
Chavore's gaze drifted over me, his brow furrowing. "You're..." He trailed off, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. "Thatcher's sister, yes?"
A chill slithered down my spine.
Elysia smiled. "Her name is Thais, darling," she prompted, her fingers tightening on his arm.
"Of course," Chavore nodded, but his eyes remained unfocused, vacant. "Thais. My apologies."
"We were just discussing the celebration after the ceremony," Elysia said, her voice sickly sweet. "You must join us, Thais. Assuming you survive the Forging, of course."
The casualness of her words made my fingers twitch, but I kept my face impassive, my voice level. Used all the ridiculous formality Xül had taught me over the last few months. "Thank you for the invitation. I'll certainly have to consider it."
"We'd be honored," Chavore said.
Elysia's smile turned brittle. "I suppose we'll see how everything plays out." She tugged on Chavore's arm. "Come, darling, we should speak with your father before the ceremony begins."
Chavore followed without protest, allowing himself to be led away like a docile pet. I watched them go, unease coiling tighter in my stomach.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked quietly, once they were out of earshot.
Thatcher's expression darkened. "I told you. He's been like that since the beginning."
Chavore and Elysia disappeared into the crowd.
I caught sight of Xül across the room. Our eyes locked and my chest cinched—warmer than dread, messier. Last night's memories flickered through my mind.
Then I felt Thatcher's gaze pressing against me. I've never seen you look at someone like that .
I don't know what you're talking about. I jerked my eyes away, tried to deflect.
You can't lie to me, Thais. And it's not just you. He looks at you the same way.
It's complicated. I bumped my shoulder against Thatcher's. And don't look at me like that, with your big sad eyes.
You're allowed to feel, Thais. He mused. Our entire life in Saltcrest, you didn't allow it. But it's different now.
I hesitated, then let a small truth slip through our bond. Things have changed.
With Xül? Thatcher's curiosity pulsed through our connection.
Yes. I wasn't ready to share more, not even with Thatcher. What had happened between Xül and me still felt too fragile, too new. Too easy to shatter.
Thatcher studied me, and I felt his understanding through our bond. He wouldn't push. Whatever happens, I'm with you.
His comfort flowed through our bond, steadying me as it had countless times throughout our lives.
It's difficult to wrap my mind around any of this, I admitted. The idea of having an after at all. It doesn't feel real.
We have a chance now—a chance to make something of ourselves. To live.
Don’t speak too soon. We still have to survive today.
The universe can’t get rid of the Morvaren twins that easily. He pulled me into a hug.
The resonant tone of a ceremonial bell cut through the chamber, silencing the crowd. Olinthar's scribes appeared, clothed in white and gold, their faces serene masks as they directed us to our positions. They looked so much like the priests from Saltcrest. I tried my hardest not to wince.
We should join the others, I sent finally. They're calling for us to take our positions.
Thatcher nodded, squeezing my hand once before releasing it. "When this is over, we'll talk properly. About everything. "
"Right," I agreed.
My legs felt heavier with each step toward the pedestals. This was the moment everything changed. Succeed or fail. Live or die. Become divine or be consumed by divinity.
I took my place on the cold marble, suddenly aware of thousands of immortal eyes fixed upon us. Marx stood on the pedestal beside mine, her face composed but her fingers tapping restlessly against her thigh. Across from us stood Thatcher and Vance. If he was scared, he didn't show it.
A hush fell over the chamber as the main doors swung open once more. Olinthar entered, and the very air seemed to bend around him.
Light seemed to bleed from him.
My father. The bastard who had cost me everything and would soon pay for it. But in reality, how soon was soon? In the face of eternity, how long would we be waiting to take him down? I regretted not asking that.
I forced myself to look directly at him as he took his seat, refusing to cower even as hatred burned so hot in my chest I feared it might show on my skin. His perfect features were arranged in an expression of benevolent command that made me want to scream.
"Welcome," he intoned, his voice resonating throughout the chamber without effort. "Today, we witness the culmination of the Trials of Ascension. These four mortals—" his gaze swept over us, "—have proven themselves worthy of consideration for our divine ranks."
As if this were some great honor he bestowed.
"Ascension is not merely a reward," Olinthar continued, his perfect hands gesturing gracefully as he spoke. "It is a sacred duty, a divine purpose that transcends mortal understanding. Those who join us take on the burden of shaping the very fabric of existence."