80. THE SACRIFICE
When Remic had said he wanted to join the ritual sacrifice earlier, I panicked. Had I known beforehand that his participation didn’t mean he was the one that was going to be sacrificed, I wouldn’t have lost my shit in front of an entire tent of Dionachs.
He’d simply grinned at me, which was always a sight to behold when it happened.
And then he’d explained that he wasn’t volunteering his own life away.
Nevertheless, I gave him a thorough scolding as soon as the tent had vacated.
I had already been trying my best to hold myself together and get through the meeting after everything that had happened in The Great Wood.
I didn’t have the capacity to even think of losing someone else that I cared so dearly for.
After the meeting, the overwhelm finally set in.
Remic had taken me back to Niall’s tent, where I finally broke down. He held me while I cried. And when I didn’t stop crying, he remained, steady as stone.
Seeing me in that state of sadness stressed Niall to no end. He paced, not knowing what to do or how he could take away my pain. Eventually, he stepped away from the tent and let me work through what I needed to in the comfort of Remic’s quiet presence.
Kill them. Kill them all.
My brother’s dying words were all I had been able to think about.
The others had made their rounds, each of them coming to check on me and offer their condolences.
Niall had received their sentiments outside the tent on my behalf, while I pulled myself together.
I appreciated each of their efforts and consoling words, but none of it would bring my brother back.
When they asked if there was anything they could do, I heard Niall tell them to kill as many of our enemies as possible.
Promises were given, and boots came and went.
Remic stayed, helping me nurse the headache that was brought on by my crying, then he slipped away to tend to the damage he’d done to his sword.
Niall and Roirdan spent the rest of the day receiving Elandrew’s army, which Breck had successfully rallied just before Killian had shown up to poison him. They were sorting out their section of camp, further to the west.
Meanwhile, Benmoor had also arrived in full force.
Thousands of soldiers from the red sands poured into the mountain pass.
Silas had come to check on me, and when I was ready to leave the tent, he’d flown me up to a rocky outcrop high above, where we’d perched for a while and watched the numbers grow by the hour.
Night had fallen since then.
The eve of war had come.
Lyceius had given us two days to accept his terms. It turned out that the first day had served as a day for everything but time to even consider it—which we wouldn’t have anyway.
And today was for the rest of our allies to arrive.
Niall had been right. Meeting with Lyceius had bought us time we desperately needed.
It had cost precious lives, the thought of which I couldn’t let myself dwell on now, but it bought us time.
Silas now stood at my side, Niall on the other.
The rest of our group surrounded us, and beyond them, Dionachs and warriors from every territory filled the spaces between the trees.
All had come to witness the ritual sacrifice that was customary to the witches and Dionachs.
And since Torin was clearly waiting until the last possible minute to send her promised witches, Nivelle was the one who would be guiding the ceremony.
An altar had been erected in the midst of the trees, made from two small boulders, and a slab of stone that had been placed on top. Around the platform, the ground had been cleared and swept clean of any debris.
A full moon was rising, its light beaming down through the trees, glistening off mountain stone. The heavy cadence of drums began somewhere in the distance, and every head turned in anticipation. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what I saw rounding the trees took me by surprise.
Blazing torches illuminated the pathway, bathing the surroundings in flickering orange light, casting shadows that pulsed like beings of the night writhing between the trees.
The Dionachs who carried them were shirtless and barefoot, their chests and faces painted with marks and runes.
The line of fire and wings stretched down the path, each male stepping to the beat of the drum that pounded closer . . . closer . . .
No one spoke. Only the sound of drums punctuated the air.
The Dionachs filed around the stone altar, each of them leaving an opening for the one who proceeded to follow.
The forest grew still—watching, listening.
Pale blonde hair, unbound and flowing . .
. An equally pale face, inked with markings, and painted with additional runes .
. . Nivelle looked as otherworldly as the witch goddess herself as she glided, barefoot, along the path.
Solid white robes swamped her delicate body, and she carried an empty wooden bowl, cradled in her hands like an offering.
Behind her, Remic followed. He, too, was shirtless like the other males, with a smattering of runes that had been painted onto his skin.
Across his face, four diagonal black lines cut from temple to jaw.
The tips of his wings had even been dipped in ink.
In his outstretched palms, he held a wicked blade with a curved handle made of what looked to be bone.
I watched him intently, deciphering the intensity he held in his expression.
Something in him had either snapped into or out of place yesterday with Saxon’s arrival, and I couldn’t quite tell which it was—couldn’t tell whether this was some sort of personal atonement, or a way for him to get right with the gods.
Either way, in this moment, he looked as foreign to me as the day I first met him.
Torchlight flickered. Shadows danced.
Another male came down the path, but he did not have wings.
Fair skin, braided hair, a scruffy beard . . . pointed ears . . .
He was fae. From Vahrenhall—if I had to guess.
There were no markings on his skin. No black paint. He wore only a long white tunic that dusted the ground as he walked. With his head held high, he followed Remic and Nivelle. Two more Dionachs closed up the end of the procession behind him.
The drums surrounded us, and the Dionachs in the crowd began to sway to the beat.
Niall hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me into his side. “Do not be alarmed by what you see,” he murmured in my ear. “This has been a long-neglected practice, but it’s an ancient tradition.”
I eyed the white-clothed male. “Do you mean to say that Vahrenhall used to make sacrifices?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Nivelle had informed me that the witches and Dionachs still participated in this ritual on a regular basis. But to think that this was once a tradition adopted by a fae territory . . .
A reemergence of things of old, Niall’s voice caressed my mind.
Signs and indications, I thought back.
He squeezed my waist.
Breck had been right in what he’d told me about the prophecy and the things that would lead up to its fulfillment. I pinpointed his face in the crowd nearby. He was just as transfixed by the ceremony as everyone else.
Nivelle’s voice commanded the attention of the forest as she spoke over the steady beat of the drums. “Death is but a gateway, a freeing of the soul. From the gods we take our breath, and to them we shall go.”
She moved aside, allowing the fae male to approach the altar. His steps were sure. His face did not falter. He looked at peace, ready to embrace death. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the altar and laid his back against the stone.
Remic stepped up to his side, blade in hand. He pressed it to the male’s exposed neck and asked, “Are you ready?”
“I am ready to meet the gods,” the male responded, loud enough for all to hear. “And with my blood, may they grant us their favor in battle.”
Nivelle tilted her head up to the sky and whispered words that only she could hear.
When she lowered it again, her eyes and facial markings were glowing blue.
She placed her palm upon the male’s forehead while the other two Dionachs laid firm hands on his feet and shoulders.
“Bleed for the gods,” she commanded. Her voice sounded other-worldly, like it was Torin speaking through her in that moment.
Remic’s gaze narrowed. His muscles flexed as he applied pressure and drug the blade across the male’s neck.
The movement was slow, smooth, and deep.
Red coated the silver, flooded the white, drenched the black.
The male’s body shook, protesting the blood-letting, but steady hands held him against the altar.
The moon, high above, reflected in his wide eyes while he lay choking on death, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Could he see the gods? Was he in their presence?
Or were the tears from the pain?
No one would ever know.
The Dionachs eased their hold as the male’s chest fell still, eyes forever fixated on whatever image his mind had conjured up before he took his last breath.
Nivelle held the bowl in place to collect the blood that spilled freely over the edge of the stone, and when it was filled to the brim, she lifted it to the heavens.
The drums pounded. Their cadence vibrated my chest like a second heartbeat—hard and fast. All the Dionachs were swaying now—even the ones who held the torches. The undulating flames sent the forest’s shadows into motion.
Remic took the bowl with both his hands while Nivelle tilted her head toward the sky once more. Then, he tipped the bowl, pouring its contents over her shoulders until her robes ran red.
I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open at the sight.
Nivelle was invigorated by it. Her eyes fluttered, blue light pulsing beneath her lashes.
She reached up and ran her fingers along the rim of the bowl, wetting them, then flicking the fluid across Remic’s face and chest. A blessing by sacrificial blood.
When she looked up at him, I could have sworn it was Torin looking through her eyes.
“The noble warrior,” she said in that strange voice. Her hand cupped his cheek, lingering as she assessed him a moment longer.
Remic’s eyes widened, seeming to search for meaning in those words . . . and finding it. His expression shifted, solidifying with something akin to determination.
The drums lowered their rhythm as Nivelle lifted her hands again.
She spoke a string of foreign words—an incantation, almost like a song—and then, she cried out.
It was a strange and otherworldly sound, a mix between a yell and a brash, yet harmonic note.
She held the yell for a long moment, then her voice broke into a higher pitch that echoed through the mountains.
Something warm and wet hit my forehead, startling me. I touched my finger to it, drawing it away to find . . . red.
I turned toward Niall just as a drop fell upon his brow.
All around us, the pelting sound of rain filled the space. But it was not normal rain that fell. It was blood, falling from a cloudless sky.
This was a blessing from the gods.
Some of the fae shifted uneasily, while others held their palms up to catch a few drops and get a closer look at the miracle as it happened.
“Lift your ashes to the sky!” Nivelle cried out, spinning in place, reveling in the crimson as it coated her face, her clothes.
Throughout the trees, the Dionachs did as she asked.
Then, as quick as it came, the blood transitioned into water, cold and cleansing. It showered us once more, leaving a strange, invigorating sensation in its wake.
Nivelle’s blue markings faded back to gray, and without a word, she turned and made her way through the night-drenched forest toward camp. Everyone’s attention followed her, but next to me, Silas watched Remic.
Standing over the altar, Remic seemed as if he were in a trance, staring at the body that lay before him. The black paint had bled from his face and neck, leaving diluted trails that stretched the length of his abdomen. His chest and wings were the only things that moved as he breathed and stared.
Niall leaned closer to Silas. “What do you sense?”
Silas tilted his head. “I sense he has found whatever he was searching for.”