The Petulant Princess

30. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

I jolted awake, my body floating. Panic swelled as I flailed and thrashed.

“Easy.”

Sainte’s thick arms pulled me close, and I clung to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. His warmth steadied me as my toes found the soft, glowing sediment at the bottom of the pool. My heart raced, breaths quick and shallow. Blinking, I peered over his shoulder at the cavern—empty, save for Edne and the girl. No goddess with a patchwork dress of green.

“This is madness,” I gasped, trying to force my pulse to slow.

A flash of color along my skin snared my attention. I jerked back, fingers digging into his muscles. A wreath of ivy encircled my wrist, the red, angry outline of leaves and stems swollen and stinging in the cool air. I winced, turning my hand over. It formed a complete bracelet.

I shoved out of his embrace and held it up for him to see—the accusation hot on my tongue. “Did you do this?!”

I staggered, and he steadied me with firm hands on my hips, his head tilting as he studied the mark. A bead of water trailed from his temple to his chin, and I watched it fall.

“No.” A hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

My eyes narrowed, and I threw my hand toward Edne and the young priestess. “You?!”

“Togamar has heard your request for faith.” The old woman chuckled, showing what few teeth she had left. “She has answered you and given you a token to bear for the rest of your days. ”

I frowned, pulling my hand close to my chest. The heart-shaped leaves tapered into fine points, and the vine formed a perfect circle without a discernible beginning or end.

It stung.

When I met Sainte’s patient gaze, I drew in a slow breath. His eyes searched, waiting for me to accept that the gods were real—that they heard the people’s prayers, if not mine.

I didn’t recall ever praying for faith.

“I need to see the priest from the north,” I said. “And Nothar wants to speak with you.”

His smile vanished, replaced by a furrowed brow. “We will go to his temple when you are ready.”

I huffed, pulling away from him and slogging toward the pool’s edge. The warm water stung the mark on my wrist, and I held it above the surface, hissing in pain.

“Be careful,” I warned, struggling to pull myself out, the wet dress clinging to my skin. “I don’t want to see what kind of damage he can do.” I waved my hand for emphasis.

If these visions truly were the gods, Nothar didn’t care for me. If the second rite was anything to go by, he would readily leave me in a snowdrift. And I was supposed to be his kin.

I couldn’t think about what he would do to Sainte.

We dressed quickly, a fur between my damp hair and my dress, and followed Edne as she hobbled up the steps. She led us through well-lit corridors to a warm, cozy room.

Whitewashed walls reflected the hearth’s light, candles adding a soft glow. The space felt inviting, but the frail figure on the bed seemed out of place amid its warmth. Swaddled in furs and blankets, his features appeared gaunt and discolored. Red and black splotches marred his skin, and open blisters on his ears oozed blood and fluid onto the white linen pillow. I swallowed nervously, taking in the unsettling sight.

Edne tsked, giving me a prod with her cane. “Go on now.”

I took a hurried step forward, glancing back at her. She smiled, shook her head, and closed the door behind her hunched form. I peered at Sainte for help, but he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. When he caught my gaze, he arched a brow, a silent challenge as if to say I got myself into this mess. Now I had to see it through.

I heaved a sigh and turned to the feeble man who looked to all the world as if he were sleeping. Sparse white hair revealed the extent of his injury. It wasn’t just his face. Any exposed skin bore the ravages of Wynterborne’s harsh kiss. I frowned. Locals knew to cover themselves against the elements. The cold bit deep here, and it wouldn’t be forgiving to someone who braved its wrath unprepared.

This was a Priest of Nothar, and an aged one as well. He should have known how to prepare for the trek and withstand the Howls.

His wrinkled mouth thinned into a smile, his eyes, the color of snow-laden clouds, opened, seeking me out. I offered an unsteady grin as he tilted his head. A raspy sound escaped his dry lips, and I instinctively moved closer.

“Wat—er.”

I glanced around, then grabbed the pitcher from the end table. After I filled the mug, I eased onto the bed’s edge and chewed my lip. How could I help him drink while he lay flat?

Sainte stepped close, solving my conundrum by slipping his strong arms under the man’s head, lifting him upright. I raised the mug to his lips, waiting as he drew in slow sips. His eyes fixed on my face as he drank, but I was too nervous I might drown him to divert my attention from his mouth for more than a second.

When he turned away from the drink with a soft sigh, Sainte lowered him to the pillow. I set the cup aside and offered a gentle smile now that he didn’t look as pale.

“You must be the Lost Princess,” he rasped.

The blankets slipped off his chest while he drank, and my grin faltered as I noticed the same sores along his torso, the black of dead skin and red, open blisters.

“Princess Elspeth, at your service,” I said quietly, tugging the furs up to his chin.

“Thank you, child,” he whispered. “You are sweet as honey—an answer to the people’s prayers.”

He lifted a weak hand from beneath the covers, and I fumbled to expose his weathered palm. I steeled myself and grasped the wound-covered limb.

“Ah, see,” I grimaced with a soft shake of my head, “the gods didn’t actually choose me.”

He frowned, cloudy eyes searching my face. “What do you mean, child?”

“The Rite of Favor,” I explained, “they chose Adastrus, not I. Though, don’t ask me why I had to endure the other rites if the last one settled them all.”

“Show me your hands.”

I tilted my head in confusion at his request, but lifted them to his line of sight.

His eyes snagged on my wrist, still red and angry from Togamar’s touch. “Your palms.”

I obliged, wondering if he intended to read the lines like some witches did in Tilamuik. I never placed much faith in their ability to predict my future from wrinkles in my skin, but maybe the priest did .

“You did not seek favor,” he said.

I flinched, retracting my hands to my lap, a frown pulling my features. “I did, during the final rite. We both used the cloak–”

“You touched them?”

“Aye.” I sniffed, offended by his doubt. Perhaps he was too old, or his mind too brittle from the toll of his journey.

“You have not laid hands on the God Stones.”

I glanced at Sainte, but he was no help, offering a shrug as he returned to his place against the wall.

“And how do you know this?” I asked.

“If you saw them, you would understand,” he sighed, eyes fluttering shut.

His mouth pinched. Whether in pain or worry, I wasn’t sure.

“The rites are not only to prove the gods’ choice… but to strengthen the people’s faith.” He blinked at the ceiling, long and drawn out, unseeing. “They need to believe the divine will receive their prayers and answer them. The rites are as much for you as they are for the whole of the kingdom.”

“You’re saying the stones used were not the God Stones?” I asked carefully.

“Nain, the stone that answers ‘no’ is sharp, child. It is all jagged edges and vicious points. It would cut you if you but touched the surface with the tip of your finger. Yail is so cold that even holding it for a breath would burn your skin with its chill.” His eyes darted to mine as he pressed his lips together. “I would offer my oath as a Priest of Nothar that you did not touch the God Stones.”

I sat back, head spinning as his words resounded.

The gods hadn’t denied me.

They hadn’t chosen Adastrus.

This was simply another trick of his, another lie. The Wolf’s warning made sense now. My brother stole the stones and switched them out for some other form of vile magic.

Against the Priests of Togamar’s advice and Sainte’s reluctance, we braved the walk to Nothar’s temple. It was just a short distance across the lane, but the Howl descended in full force, shrouding everything in a frigid, snowy haze that limited visibility to mere arm’s length.

I refused to let a storm stand in the way of my quest for answers. Time was not on my side, and staying in the district felt safer than trekking to the castle.

Clutching onto a green scarf tied around Sainte’s waist, a precaution to prevent me from getting lost in the Howl, we plowed through the snow. With my head bowed against the biting wind, I placed my trust in my Valahant to guide us through the whiteout.

We trudged through the cold for what felt like an eternity before Sainte stopped and I pulled short, stumbling into his back. He turned, causing the piles of snow that clung to his shoulders fall to the ground, silent amid the howling wind.

“We’ve veered off course!”

His voice cut through the gale, and I raised my arm to shield my face from the stinging flakes, squinting to meet his gaze. Frost dusted his brows and lashes as he scanned the area above my head, searching for any landmark.

A knot of unease tightened in my gut. This was why no one ventured out of their house during a Howl.

It should have been a straightforward path, just across the lane. How had we managed to stray so far without encountering any sign of a temple?

Unless, as Togamar had cautioned, the gods were not aligned in favor of my ascension.

I was weak.

Unfit to rule.

Sainte closed the gap between us, enfolding me in his embrace, his gaze scanning the swirling snow as though seeking a hidden path through its white veil.

Togamar’s words echoed in my mind, accusing me of weakness due to my lack of faith. She blessed me with a Valahant strong in belief, and according to her, Nothar protected me this far. If any god made an investment in me, it was him.

Seeking solace, I pressed my face into the warmth of Sainte’s cloak, my cheeks burning with embarrassment of what I was about to do. With eyes scrunched tight, I sent a silent plea into the icy air for Nothar.

Hear my prayer. Lead us straight and true. Guide us to your temple.

A na?ve sense of hope gnawed at my resolve. There was no going back after this. If he answered, I would know they were real.

I kept my face buried against Sainte’s chest, his strong arm holding me tight as he waited for a clue as to the right direction.

Seconds passed, his grip grounding me in reality. Anger brewed within me, not aimed at the gods, but at myself for entertaining such fantastical notions. These dreams or visions were mere figments, not the fabric of my life’s reality, which I alone shaped.

The wind slapped my face with such cold and brutal force that I staggered. Sainte caught me, and I pulled my cloak tighter, struggling to pull in a breath of icy air.

Behind him, outlined against the snowy backdrop, stood a wolf .

Its fur blended with the drifts, but the gray eyes framed by dark skin sought my soul, its nose a black blot against the white landscape. It observed me, head lowered and ears pricked forward—alert but not aggressive.

I should have been afraid.

And I was, but not in the face of this predator come to rend me from limb to limb and consume my organs like delicacies. My fear stemmed from a different source. Nothar answered my prayer.

A shiver ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Sainte spun, following my wide-eyed stare, then his grip on me tightened.

“Nothar sent him!” I shouted over the wind’s roar.

The beast’s gaze held an eerie intelligence, a hunger lurking behind its measured movements. It licked its chops as if it would rather eat us, but instead of pouncing, it turned and vanished into the swirling snow. Without hesitation, Sainte lurched after it, determined to track the fleeting glimpse of white amidst the flurry. We plowed onward, drifts deepening to our knees, rising as high as our hips, each step a battle against the tempest.

I cursed Nothar and his choice of creatures. Couldn’t he choose something with darker fur? Always white, leaving us second-guessing if we followed the wolf’s trail or merely chased phantoms in the snow.

The wolf halted, and its dark nose swiveled toward us. Its chest was buried, yet I hadn’t seen it leap through the drifts, or leave any tracks.

“Here!”

Sainte tugged me along to an iron courtyard fence, and I peered over my shoulder one last time. Surely a ghost wolf could fend for itself in a Howl.

The scarf cinched around my waist, urging me forward as my Valahant carved a path toward the temple. When we reached the entrance, his breaths heaved as he rested his weight against the stone wall. I shot him a concerned look before I raised my fist to knock.

The door’s surface was rough and unfinished, lacking a handle for me to tug it open. The only indication that it led to the Temple of Nothar was the vivid painting adorning it. It depicted a striking image of a man, a god, with piercing green eyes. A crown of antlers graced his brow, his expression stern. His features were distinctive, with a long face, prominent cheekbones, a sharp nose, and thin lips. He held a terrible, fierce beauty, not conventionally handsome or appealing. His skin was as pale as milk, and his sun-bleached hair hinted at a subtle golden hue.

I swallowed hard. It felt as though I was being judged by those eyes, as if they could cut through my disbelief and lack of faith in the divine.

A gust shoved me forward as the door swung open, and I yelped, staggering as the robed figure stepped aside, parting the way for me to fall flat on my face. Thankfully, the woven rug of blue and green cushioned the impact .

As voices clamored and a crowd gathered, I groaned and rolled onto my side with a weakened smile. Exhaustion pulled at my eyes, slowing my blinks.

“We seek sanctuary,” Sainte called out, voice weak.

His slumped form showed his strain. He must have been more exhausted than me. Though, as I lay there on the floor, I had no desire to rouse myself, content to remain in a heap of cold, wet clothes.

At least he managed to stay upright.

“The Temple of Nothar receives you. We offer you hearth and home,” someone answered.

“There’s a wolf out there,” I mumbled, shivering against the damp chill gnawing at my bones.

“A wolf?” another asked.

My fingers twitched as I tried to gather the strength to get up and move closer to the fire. “Aye. Big. White. Brought us here.”

“Deitrus. He acts as Nothar’s guide.” A young man leaned over me, a playful grin tugging his lips as he took in my fatigue. “Perhaps you would do better in warm, dry clothes.”

“Please,” I whined. I’d have given my left thumb for such comforts.

He grinned, gesturing for the others to leave, then bent low, arms outstretched as if to lift me. But someone else beat him to it, raising me to a strong—very wet and cold—chest.

“I am Falon, head priest of this temple,” he said, his features settling into an amused grin. A mischievous glint brightened his gaze when he looked my way. “And you must be the princess. I would ask why you were wandering through a Howl with naught but your Valahant, but since Deitrus led you here, I have to assume it is Nothar’s will.”

“We were told to seek out Nothar,” I explained.

“Of course,” he said with a bow. “First, dry clothes.”

His teasing tone brought a feeble grin to my face, and he straightened, ignoring the lingering stares and watchful eyes of those still in the room.

This temple differed from Togamar’s. Where hers was soft, bright and inviting, this was austere and imposing. Its rough-hewn walls were dark stone stacked like colossal bricks, giving the impression of a smaller, more foreboding space. The priests were all dressed in white and green, and as we made our way through the lantern-lit halls, I noted they were all male.

Why did no women serve Nothar?

Another striking difference was the display of gilded weapons adorning the walls instead of art or tapestries. Vivid shields were interspersed with daggers and swords their jeweled hilts caught the sparse lantern light.

Falon led us to a modest chamber with roaring flames in its hearth. Though compact, it exuded warmth and coziness. The fire’s amber glow painted shadows on the uneven walls, casting a comforting ambiance over the room furnished simply with a small table and four chairs.

I smirked at the ax that hung over the mantle.

Clearly, Nothar loved weapons.

The priest excused himself to find a robe that might fit me, and I shed my wet cloak. I draped it on a hook near the hearth, then held out my aching hands. Sainte did the same, only, with a long screech, slid another chair along the stone floor, then stepped back, allowing me to sink into it and pry off my boots.

“Why are there no priestesses?” I asked, grimacing as a glob of wet slush dripped out of my sock as I peeled them off.

Sainte sighed, easing into his seat with a groan. He took a moment, resting his elbow on his knee to prop up his head. His damp hair fell over his forehead, and he gripped it tight before smoothing it back.

Guilt tainted my thoughts. He braved that Howl because of me.

With shoulders sagged, he glanced my way before facing the fire. “Nothar does not choose women.”

“I thought people chose which gods to serve.”

“They may, but the god or goddess decide who serves in their temple.”

Nothar had to be swallowing his pride then, to be backing me instead of my brother.

“These priests have to complete an initiation by combat,” he added. “They must defeat a seasoned priest, and train with weaponry daily.”

He rolled his head to look at me, and my heart did a little flip when a lock of hair fell loose and dangled against his brow.

“So a girl wouldn’t have a chance?”

“To defeat a man whose sole purpose is to fight and serve his god? No.”

“You’re severely underestimating women as a whole,” I huffed.

“You will find out soon enough.”

He leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. His muscles tensed and he grimaced. A blush warmed my cheeks as I studied his form beneath his wet clothes which clung to him like a second skin. I knew I couldn’t best Sainte, not because of my gender, rather his training. My skills with a dagger came from necessity, not from the rigorous discipline he endured. In a fight, he would overpower me without effort.

He lowered his arms and caught the tail-end of my stare. I shifted my gaze to the flames, but not before I spotted his raised eyebrow, hinting at his amusement.

“I will prepare you as best I can,” he said.

“Hmm?” I forced myself back to the conversation, trying to avoid thoughts of Sainte’s body.

Not the definition of his chest .

Not the lines of his abs.

I definitely didn’t need to be thinking about the trail of hair that ran down his stomach, disappearing into his trousers.

“…why Togamar sent us.”

My lips pressed tight, and I shook my head as if that would be enough to stifle the heat blooming low in my belly.

Look at his face, El.

His face!

He frowned, confusion creasing his brow. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and forced a bright smile, hoping it didn’t betray my thoughts.

“What worries you?”

A strangled sound escaped as my grin faltered. “Togamar told us to come here for you, not me.”

“… because I feel Nothar will show me how to best prepare you.”

Oh, that’s what he had said.

“Right,” I nodded, turning my gaze back to the hearth.

A knock saved me from my thoughts straying once again. We rose as Falon entered, blue and white robes draped over his arms. His gray eyes flicked over me to my Valahant, lips lifting in a smile.

“Please change. You will be far more comfortable, then we can discuss the ritual.”

I scrunched my nose in distaste. Hadn’t I endured enough divine encounters already?

“She won’t be participating,” Sainte said as he secured his robe from Falon.

The priest dipped his chin, curious. “You seek Nothar, do you not, Princess? Your Valahant does not share your lineage. You may be one, but the blood calls to–”

Sainte cut him off. “I will suffer the Ritual of Blade and Blood.”

Gods, that sounded terrifying.

Without waiting for Falon’s response, he took the second robe, handing it over to me. His jaw clenched.

“He won’t answer,” Falon said, puzzled, as if unsure.

“Nothar wishes to speak with him,” I tried, glancing between the two.

“And he told you this?” he asked, turning his questioning eyes to me.

I straightened, pulling myself up to my full height, still a head shorter than both of them, but it helped empower me, as if I had a right to use this tone with him. “Priest Falon, I am weary. Do not question my actions, or those of my Valahant. We will dress and expect the ritual to be ready as soon as possible.” I lifted my chin, holding his mildly amused gaze, watching his smile grow.

“You have courage, Princess. ”

Something twinkled in his eye, and I couldn’t place if it was admiration or irritation.

“Please, dress." He dipped into a small bow, eyes trained on me. “The ritual is ready when you are.” With a parting, unreadable smile, he took his leave.

“ Blade and Blood?! ” I hissed.

“What? You worried?” he taunted, his shoulders dropping as we were once again left in the privacy of each other’s company.

“If something happens to you–”

“Togamar said I should seek Nothar. That’s what we’re doing.”

“Couldn’t you just say a prayer? Light a candle? Thrice-curse it all—I would settle for an animal sacrifice at this point.” I snatched a robe out of his hand and held it up, checking the size.

“Oh, she cares!” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

“Ugh!” I hurled the garment at him, then snatched the smaller one.

“Truly, Elspeth,” Sainte chuckled, “we are in Nothar’s temple, the Father of Wynterborne, Highest of Godkind. Do you think if he meant us ill will, he would wait until a ritual?”

“I don’t pretend to know the minds of the divine,” I huffed, fumbling behind my back to loosen the laces of my dress. “What exactly does this entail?” I demanded, glaring.

“It’s nothing, Ellie.”

The laces snapped as I stepped forward, clutching my chest to keep the fabric in place. My fury reflected in his open smile of amusement.

“Don’t you Ellie me!” I hissed. “You probably think the scars on your back, from years of flogging, mean nothing, too! Well, you are my Valahant now,” I poked his shoulder, “and I have a say in what happens to you!”

He arched a brow, his head tilting in warning—or perhaps daring me to go on.

“You’re mine , Sainte. You don’t get to make choices concerning this ,” I gestured over his body, “without laying out all the details.”

He caught my hand, careful to avoid the angry red mark of Togamar. He yanked me against him, my palm pressed to his chest, forcing me to clutch the fabric tighter.

“The vows go both ways, Princess .” His tone took on a dangerous edge, his face a breath from mine. “I have a say in how to best protect you, even if it costs me.”

My glare darkened. “And if I refuse?”

“You don’t get to.”

I slapped him.

My dress fell to my waist, and his head snapped to the side, the imprint of my fingers reddening his cheek. Angry breaths heaved from my bare chest, furious at his assumption that I had no say in what he did. This bond was meant to unite us, not force secret choices upon each other.

What good was being a princess if I couldn’t protect the people closest to me?

He turned back to face me at an infuriatingly slow rate, his eyes burning with rage, nostrils flaring. I struggled to pull the dress up over my chest, tugging against his iron grip.

I failed.

He opened his mouth to speak, but a knock silenced him.

“Is all well, Princess? We heard shouting,” a voice called out.

Sainte’s barely contained fury met mine.

“Should I let them know you’re about to kill me?” I hissed through clenched teeth.

He exhaled through his nose, his features a visual representation of controlled rage. His grip, however, spoke volumes. He was anything but calm.

“Tell them we’ll be out shortly.”

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself,” I demanded, my whisper harsh.

“Elspeth.” He groaned my name as if pleading with not only me but his own sanity.

“Princess?!” The voice grew more urgent.

“Promise me!”

“Gods, Ellie. It’s a simple cut on the–”

The door burst open, and Sainte moved in an instant, spinning me to face the fire. His hand darted behind him, the hum of metal against wood ringing out. A twitch tightened his jaw as he closed his eyes. I craned my head, peeking past his arm as he pulled me close, my bare chest pressing against his damp tunic.

An apprentice in light blue robes stood frozen, the door ajar enough to reveal his shocked expression. A dagger quivered in the frame, mere inches from his face.

“We’re fine,” I said, flashing him a smile.

“I… I–”

“The Princess of Wynterborne answered you, boy,” Sainte snapped.

I smiled at the underside of his chin as he glared at the wall above my head.

“Right then.” The man swallowed nervously, then eased the door shut.

Sainte let me loose as if I burned him, then spun away. Guilt mingled with my anger. I shouldn’t have lashed out, yet it felt justified. Why was I always powerless when I was meant to be a princess? People used my title for their own ends.

“They will cut my palm with a ceremonial dagger,” he said, voice low.

My lips pressed together, and I hurried into the robe. Sainte did the same, not speaking or glancing my way to check if I respected his modesty… which I did once he removed his tunic. Silence enveloped us. He secured his belt and retrieved his dagger from the frame, sliding it into his sheath.

“I’m coming,” I stated, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I never doubted it.”

We traversed the quiet, dim corridors, where hushed voices and scarce lighting created an atmosphere akin to a dungeon. As we delved deeper into the temple, the lanterns on the walls became more sparse, forcing me to squint in the darkness.

I followed Sainte’s bulky figure as he strode behind the young priest. He was brooding and angry, and I didn’t like it. I was accustomed to his unwavering support, even when he disagreed with me. Now, his frustration was palpable, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Not without reason.

I did slap him.

I lowered my head to hide the smirk spreading across my lips. Perhaps I wasn’t as remorseful as I pretended. Asserting my independence felt empowering, despite the consequences. Did I regret slapping him…

Minutely.

He bore physical pain on my behalf, suffering years of floggings and countless beatings, enduring my brother’s wrath. He shielded me with his body. I reached my limit.

I cared for him.

Not that I would tell him that.

It pained me to see him suffer for my sake, even if it was his duty. I resolved to spare him every possible ounce of misery.

Falon claimed Nothar wouldn’t respond to Sainte’s blood…

I glanced up at his broad shoulders, a mischievous grin forming on my lips. As if catching onto my scheme, he peered over his shoulder. I masked my expression with an innocent smile, fluttering my lashes. His mouth curved downward in an endearing manner before his attention focused ahead.

The priest guided us into a vast chamber, its illumination as dim as the corridor we traversed. A fire at its heart cast shadows across the stone walls, adding to the room’s rustic allure. I glanced upward, marveling at the sloped ceiling, wondering about the skilled hands that fashioned this space. The fiery burn of coals within the center outshone the four lanterns’ feeble glow.

Falon stood on the opposite end, bearing a small dagger resting upon a white cushion, its silver blade catching what little light there was. His demeanor had shifted, his smile replaced by a solemn expression in respect for the ritual about to take place.

“Come, kneel, Sainte Nytestorm,” he said.

I followed tight on his heels, and his shoulders tensed as he realized I trailed him, but he refrained from rebuking me in front of Nothar’s priest.

Falon’s gaze flicked toward me, signaling for Sainte to halt by the expansive fire pit. I responded with a slight nod as he lowered himself to his knees, facing the radiant embers. The coals stirred with his movement, their dance catching my attention as they seemed to pulse with an eerie life of their own.

Falon approached with small careful strides, and I stepped forward, holding my hand out. Sainte’s cool stare practically burned into me as the priest dipped into a bow and offered the pillow.

Ignoring my Valahant’s fury, I picked up the dagger. Its weight surprised me—solid steel adorned with an engraving that depicted wolves in pursuit of a stag. The gemstone eyes of the creatures glinted vividly, while red rubies trailed from the stag’s wound, leaving a trail for the beasts to follow.

The blade’s brutality was evident, its glint reflecting the ember’s light. Despite its short length, about a hand and a half, its sharpness was unmistakable. I knew I had to be cautious to avoid cutting too deep.

Without hesitation, I jerked the naked blade across my left palm. Blood welled up, surprising me with the rush before any discomfort set in. As the pain intensified, I hissed, dropping the bloody dagger to the pillow and turning my attention to the fire and Sainte. He made no move to assist me, his expression a mask of indifference that overlaid the swirling irritation in his eyes.

“Spill your blood into the flames,” Falon said, voice soft, yet commanding. “Let it consume your mortality, leaving only Nothar’s divinity to shine through.”

I approached, extending my fist over the embers, letting a flood of crimson spill out. The coals hissed and spat, before a sudden roar of flames burst out. I jerked back before the flare could scorch my skin.

“Stand behind your Valahant. Lean on him, as he is your support.”

Nervous, I licked my lips and moved over Sainte’s legs, positioning myself with my feet on either side of his calves, then placed my hands on his broad shoulders. I winced as my open wound protested against the fabric beneath my palm. Both my wrist, marked by Togamar, and now this cut by Nothar’s dagger, stung with each movement.

At this rate, I feared I might run out of limbs before my duel with Adastrus even began

“Repeat after me,” Falon commanded.

My gaze shifted from the top of Sainte’s head to the flames, which greedily consumed my blood, its heat cracking and flickering in the pit .

“Nothar, the Most High, Father of Wynter and King of Godkind. I, Sainte Nytestorm, Valahant to Elspeth, Second Born of Veiled King Vardis, call you from the Hunt.”

He echoed the words, his voice deep and resonant. With each breath, his shoulders rose and fell, and crimson stained the fabric beneath my touch.

“I seek the face of our father. I ask that the King of Gods receive the plea of his own blood across the Veil. Hear me. Answer me,” Sainte concluded, his voice carrying a weight of determination.

The fire died.

The flames didn’t just fade; they winked out of existence with a pop, leaving the embers black and cold. The sudden darkness and chill sent a shiver through me, and I looked to Falon, whose figure was now a silhouette against the lantern-lit wall.

“Don’t move, Princess,” he said.

Sainte stiffened, his shoulder muscles tensing like a rock beneath my touch. I heard his sharp intake of breath.

“If you remove your hands, you will sever his connection.”

I tightened my grip, hoping he could feel my presence wherever he was.

Togamar told me Nothar wanted to see him.

Nothing would happen…

He grunted and pitched forward slightly, as if struck, and I held onto him tighter, ignoring the pain in my hand.

Surely the gods would not beat him as well.

“He is beyond the Veil, whether Nothar has answered him, or another. If you sever the connection, his body and soul will be torn in two.”

He trembled beneath me, and doubts crept into my mind about the wisdom of this course of action.

“Togamar sent us here,” I whispered.

His muscles were taut, and with a low groan, he fell forward, catching himself with his palms. I leaned with him, maintaining my hold.

“Why would Nothar…?” Concern choked my throat. “How do I pull him out?!”

“You cannot.” The priest’s face was shrouded in shadow. “He may only return when he is sent back.”

I cursed, adjusting my position.

“ If he is sent back.”

I bared my teeth in a silent snarl. No one would take him from me. He suffered too much for my sake for anyone, even a god to deny me him.

“Nothar,” I whispered. “Father, hear my voice. King of Godkind, Founder of the North, heed my call. ”

An unearthly wind swept through the room, extinguishing the lanterns’ light and plunging us into darkness. Panic swelled within me as I gripped my Valahant so hard my hands ached.

“Protect him.”

Sainte gasped as his breath returned, and I pressed against his shoulder, embracing him as he panted. Shivers wracked his body, and I clenched my jaw, anxious about what I couldn’t see or hear.

We sat like that for what seemed an eternity, my own limbs starting to tremble and shake from holding the awkward position. Sainte eventually stilled, his breathing evened out, and his muscles relaxed. I focused on just keeping my hands from moving.

The room was cold and dark, and I didn’t hear anyone move—not Falon or the young priest. No light illuminated the space from the hallway, indicating they were still with us.

Sainte sucked in a quick breath and grunted, drawing away a fraction. I gripped his robe, trying to stay with him.

“Elspeth.”

Relief swept through me at the sound of his rough voice.

I shifted, moving in front of him, wrapping my trembling arms around him. He sat back, pulling me with him and settling me against his chest.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I ordered, pressing my forehead into the curve of his neck.

His chin dropped to rest on top of my head. “I would never leave you, Princess.”

“Never?” I pressed.

“Never.”