I frown, searching the crater, still trying to make sense of this fated mess.
Failing.
Every time I think I’ve got a grasp on it, the grains of understanding slip through the gaps between my fingers.
If it wanted me dead, that would’ve been the moment.
So what does it want?
“You have a vahli serpent bite,” Saiza says, running the pad of her thumb over the two stinging prickles on the mound of my breast, all the color leaving her face. “Where did this come from?”
Guess nobody saw Hock flick his pocket python at me. Wonder how many other opponents have fallen victim to his vile, dishonorable methods.
I don’t respond, mainly because there’s no point.
It’s done. The moment I no longer feel like I’m going to crumble if I stand, I’ll launch back out there and hack off his head, then mulch his brain with my fist.
Saiza’s eyes widen, whipping toward the ring. “Gas kah ne, veil dishuva!” she sneers, her words so honed I swear they could slit skin.
She stands and makes for the cluster of urns at my back, clanking around while she mutters beneath her breath. There’s the sound of her stirring something before she presents me with a cup of chilled water perhaps pulled from one of the runed urns. Though it looks almost …
Lumpy.
“Drink this,” Saiza instructs through gritted teeth, cutting another sharp glance in Hock’s direction. “I mixed the water with an antidote that gives it a strange feel, but it will counteract the venom in your system.”
I dip my head in thanks, my features twisting as I sip down globs of the sour jelly-like concoction, feeling the icy swallows seep through my bloodstream at a rapid pace. Chilling me from the inside out.
Smoothing some of the wobbles from my mind.
The Sól crouches in the sand, pinches some between her fingers, then sprinkles it on her tongue just as I drain the rest of the mug in a single face-scrunching gulp. Tipping her head, the Sól begins chanting, reaching for the sky. She stops, slams her palms on the sand, grips two handfuls, then flicks her fists over so fast most of it sprays free.
“What’s she doing?”
“Reading the will of the Creators,” Saiza whispers, taking the empty cup from my hand.
Slowly, almost eerily, the Sól loosens her fingers, milky eyes searching the grains left in her lax grasp. “Gath attain de ma veil set aygh te,” she says, her murmured words somehow echoing across the dusty expanse. “Hailá atith ana te lai …”
A hush falls over the crowd, and Kaan’s face pales. He spears me through with a wide-eyed stare that chills me to the bone.
“Did she say something b-bad?”
“The Sól has announced that since blood has already been spilled in your honor, you must not leave this crater unclaimed. That if you do, more moons will fall in this place of ill-spilled blood and the Johkull Clan will lose our place of sanctuary. That many will perish. Her word is final.”
My shudder abruptly stops, like every muscle in my body just pumped full of mortar.
The ball in Kaan’s throat rolls, and he breaks from Hock, holding my stare. He stalks toward me, his eyes taking on an empathetic softness as he pulls his málmr off.
My blood turns to ice.
He falls to his knees before me and lowers his head between his shoulders, bowing so deep his back is bared—his cupped hands outstretched, cradling his beautiful málmr …
Silence.
Even the wind stills its frantic stir.
My heart lodges so far up my throat it’s hard to breathe past.
I look at the piece—at the dark Sabersythe and silver Moonplume tucked in their forever embrace—admiring the exquisite workmanship. The love he’s poured into every dip and curve of the carving.
A vision saddles me with such intensity my breath snags:
Kaan’s málmr resting between my naked breasts, my body slicked with sweat as I writhe in rippling pleasure, looking past my navel. Down between my split thighs that are gripped by large, powerful hands …
Down to where Kaan’s ember eyes are blazing for me, his tongue laving at my—
I pop the hallucination like a bubble, gasping for a rush of air that only succeeds in making my head spin. Making it throb with a deeper, more painful hurt. No matter how hard I scrub the specter from my mind, I’m left with this oily residue of possession that slicks my insides.
A single surety stakes my heart like the roots of a mountain range—impossible to shift.
I want to accept that beautiful, dangerous object.