Chapter 5 #2
Mael’s lips twist into a faint smirk. “He’s upset, but he’ll get over it. He has a kingdom to think of first. His crown has always been heavier than his heart.”
His glinting eyes are so at odds with his usual calm, polished demeanor that it feels wrong, like he’s holding something back.
“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
Mael’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. Just be ready. Once the event begins, we’ll slip away.”
I study him for a moment longer, but there is no time to press further. I nod, turning my attention back to Eva.
“I’ll see you both soon,” Mael says, his gaze lingering on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he is gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Eva exhales softly. “Let’s move. We can’t afford to be late.”
I square my shoulders, pulling strength from Eva’s earlier words like a glamor. “Then let’s go”
A great temple dedicated to all seven gods of Elysium looms before us.
The Sevenfold Shrine is a monolithic structure of white-gold stone that drinks in the daylight and casts long, jagged shadows across the city below.
It is a place of reverence and judgment, a shrine carved from the bones of history itself.
I glance up at the towering structure, its silhouette cut sharp against the blue sky. The dark crystals embedded in its surface catch the sun’s rays, fracturing them into eerie prisms of gold and violet that dance along the towering entrance.
But it’s the way the crystals gleam—dark and endless, with countless shimmering flecks scattered across their surface—that draws my breath short. Like a white sky filled with frozen stars.
It is as if the temple was built in honor of the God of Night and Stars, the deity who once chose mortality, forsaking his divinity for the love of a human. And for that, he was slain by his aggrieved wife, the Witch Goddess.
As a child, I always thought he’d sounded like a fool to give up his power and veer off his destined path into tragedy. Now I feel for the deity. At least his choice was made in love, not stupidity.
My stomach knots as Eva and I ascend the steps.
The day settles upon me like an iron yoke, far heavier than the whisper-light silk of my gloves or the intricate weave of my gown.
I can only pray Ryker has kept our secret.
I must be seen here, if only for a moment, so that my absence doesn’t rouse suspicion and begin rumors before I can reach my own secret wedding.
Inside, it is all white marble, flickering candlelight, and deep shadows.
Lanterns cast halos of amber glow over the polished floors, their warmth swallowed by the cavernous arches stretching overhead.
The scent of aged, smoldering incense curls in the air, mingling with the sweet perfume of flowers.
Floral arrangements line the walls and cluster at the base of each archway, spilling across the floors and into corners like living offerings. White blossoms, deep red petals, and golden sprays catch the candlelight, their colors glowing softly.
We move through the gilded corridors, the hush of whispered conversations pressing in around us, a current pulling us toward the main chamber.
The balcony, always reserved for Eva and her husband, is already set. A low table is laden with goblets of rich sacrament wine and trays of carefully arranged fruit. It is a final taste of luxury before the Trial’s bloodshed begins.
Only Eva and I remain on the balcony. I barely register her murmured words as we settle into our seats, my attention drawn to the nobles below who are draped in silks and gold, murmuring amongst themselves.
The consuls are already filing into their designated seats, a silent procession of power, each one lowering themselves beneath the king’s throne.
Then, Ryker enters.
A hush falls over the chamber, the weight of his presence enough to silence even the most audacious courtiers. I barely recognize the man before me as he steps onto the dais.
His once-bright eyes are ringed with shadows. His golden hair is unkempt, his jaw rough with stubble. It’s only been a few days, but he is a ghost of himself.
Guilt claws at my guts, sharp and unrelenting. I did this. I did it to him. First the Archpriest’s unseemly demise, and then me and Mael...
Shame seizes my body so hard, I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from burning.
And when I open them again a few moments later, Mael steps out behind him.
His head is bowed, his expression veiled in solemnity, yet somehow he seems taller, his posture unfaltering, his every movement measured.
And as he ascends the dais behind Ryker, for the first time in my life, Mael looks more royal than his brother.
The realization shouldn’t bother me, but it does. It prickles beneath my skin, a whisper of unease I can’t shake.
But it’s Mael. The boy who never quite reached for the stars, who walked in Ryker’s shadow and bore it with quiet resignation. He isn’t the one to outshine his brother. He never has been. And yet he stands tall, nodding at several of his friends. My future husband.
Then the Sibyls emerge, the gods’ mouthpieces.
Their robed figures gliding across the dais, their movements as synchronized as their voices.
Their eyes and ears are sealed with scars, their journey through the deadly mists of Vapor Island stripped them of sensation—numbing their skin, erasing taste, and severing all earthly ties to the senses.
Only then can they hear the whispers of the gods.
To become a Sibyl is considered an unfathomable honor, their role as divine messengers rewarded with immense wealth. Yet, devoid of the ability to enjoy such riches, it is their families who bear the burden of spending it in their stead.
The Sphere, once formed of separate magics swirling in a graceful dance above the temple, has now merged into a single whole. It hovers inside, suspended over them.
When the Sibyls speak, they do so in unison, their voices layered and otherworldly.
“For centuries, the Gods of Elysium have watched over the human realm,” they chant, their words echoing through the temple.
“Every age, a Sovereign God rises above the rest, sustained by the collective prayers of the faithful.”
Their voices hum with resonance, and the crowd drinks every word in complete silence.
“Shaped by our mortal custom, the gods’ magic flows through this divine conduit to those entrusted by the Crown and Church to safeguard our kingdom—armies, guards, and duennas alike.
Without the Sovereign God’s power, Calcatra would stand vulnerable, like so many other kingdoms now fallen to invasion or to the blight that drains the land.
Ours is the oldest realm, spared from great wars or famine for hundreds of years, preserved by this balance. ”
I can barely focus on what they are saying. My gaze is fixed on Mael.
He stands behind Ryker, his hands clasped. He looks composed, unwavering, the picture of quiet loyalty.
Mael has always known how to keep his emotions in check, how to play the role expected of him. That’s all this is—poise, discipline. He knows the court is watching. He knows he must not betray weakness.
“Each Church has picked their Champion to enter the Trial of the Bound and compete for the title of Archpriest or priestess. Today we shall witness their ascension,” the Sibyls continue, their voices weaving through the chamber, drawing the attention of every single person here.
Mael moves.
Not hesitantly. Not with the caution of someone slipping away unnoticed. But with certainty. A shift of weight, a quiet step backward, his shoulders tilting just enough to break from the line of consuls and nobles.
No one looks his way. No one seems to notice the space he is carving for himself, as if he belongs both there and somewhere else entirely.
I track his movement through the gathered nobility, past the gilded robes and heavy perfumes, through the hush of whispered conversations.
He does not hesitate. He does not look back. His pace is smooth, deliberate, a shadow moving through the candlelight, just slow enough to seem unremarkable. And yet, something about it is remarkable.
Not a single glance over his shoulder. Not a flicker of caution. He is not a man stealing away. He is a man walking toward something.
The Sibyls’ voices rise, their layered tones weaving through the chamber, filling the space between his steps. “Once the Champion offers their blood, the deity they represent will bestow upon them a Godbeast.”
Eva takes my gloved hand and squeezes it. “It’s time,” she whispers, guiding me toward the archway leading out of the balcony where her duenna waits.
I hesitate, my heart slams against my ribs frantically.
“It’s now or never, Ray,” she says firmly, her tone making it clear she’ll only tolerate the now version of that choice.
“My lady,” the duenna gestures for me to step toward the stairs leading to the main floor. Mael is already there, waiting. Watching.
I swallow, take a steadying breath, and begin my descent away from Eva, toward him. Toward my future.
Just as I step down, Mael shifts. Only slightly. And in that moment, his gaze flickers toward his brother, and I catch it—
A look. Brief, subtle.
At first, I tell myself I imagined it. A trick of the light. A misread expression.
But the longer I watch, the harder it is to believe my own excuses. There is something beneath his stillness, something I have never seen before. Not mere resignation. Not forced indifference.
It’s veiled in stillness, restrained beneath the careful mask of solemnity. Cool satisfaction. And there’s something else, too. Deeper, darker. It is not disdain, nor fleeting contempt. It is something older, and even colder.
My breath stutters.
I search for doubt, for a flicker of hesitation in his features. I find none.
The expression vanishes in the next moment, smoothed over as though it had never been there at all. But I know what I saw.