Page 102 of The Dead Saint

Sorcha tried to pull away, a noise of distress escaping. She felt Adrian beside her, tense and listening, the air thick with questions. Her gaze bounced around the room, landing on Prince Eine’s hunger, Revenant’s fury, and fear on the advisors’ faces. The empress’s body had been brought up, but Sorcha had been so focused on Kira, she’d been unaware of the room becoming crowded with people.

“He will need to find himself. He will need the other pieces of his body.” Kira’s fingers dug into Sorcha’s muscle, breaking the skin on her wrists. “He will be vulnerable until they are all brought together, until he is complete.”

“Then how can he be brought back now?”

“Blood is powerful magic.”

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Sorcha pulled free, stumbling backward. “You’ve promised to be useful and bring the remaining relics together? That’s why the prince let you live, isn’t it? And now you will stand before the Saint and promise to make him whole.”

Kira shook her head, brows coming together. “No, you don’t?—”

“Stop.” Sorcha held up her hand and closed her eyes, ears ringing. “You let our family die and hid yourself for your own selfish reasons.”

“Because I love the Saint!” Kira shouted, her words bouncing off the ceiling. “If there was more time, I would be able to explain.”

“There is none left,” Prince Eine said, coming to stand beside Kira. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing until his knuckles went white. “It’s time to keep your promise.”

Sorcha was steady now, heavy calm blanketing her—soothing even as it suffocated. There was no escaping the fate that had brought them all to this place. She could meet it on her own terms, or she could be forced to accept it.

She would face it.

The prince’s advisors and soldiers had readied the space, placing the uncovered relics in the center of the gold circle in the floor. The women traveling with the empress were carefully unwrapping the decomposing body to one side of the bones. The putrid scent of death was barely covered by the incense they were lighting. Revenant stood by the stairs, sword in hand, as he watched it all unfold.

Prince Eine looked from Kira to Sorcha. Had Kira given him everything? Or had she let something slip now that she’d never intended him to know?

“I have to prepare,” Kira said, eyes flat now, distant.

Sorcha swiped at the tears collecting on her lashes, tilting her face up. The women moved around the room, lighting torches and placing them in the brackets along the arches. Kira knelt among the relics and adjusted them, caressing them. Eine hovered near his mother, watching the priestess’s hands. Revenant paced behind the prince, wearing an expression of distrust and revulsion, disgusted with the red witches and their blood sacrifices.

One of the women brought a basket forward, pulling items from it and handing them to Kira one by one. A shallow gilded bowl. A knife. A vial. A raw shard of ruby. A large golden circlet. Each object was carefully arranged as Kira murmured to herself—weaving prayer and promise together. Thunder rumbled, beams of sunlight piercing through the clouds, falling across the landscape, and moving toward the tower. Sorcha watched the world shifting and changing below her as pressure built in her chest.

“The Saint is waiting,” Kira said, cold and distant, motioning to the floor, to the ceremonial dagger and a vial of poison. “Choose your death.”

“Which will it be, witch?” Revenant called, yellow eyes filled with hate as he adjusted the grip on his sword.

Sorcha turned to Adrian, closing the distance between them until only the space of a breath remained. His eyes pleaded with her silently, promising to burn the whole world down if she walked out of this tower with him now.

“There is a life beyond this,” Adrian whispered. “Come with me.”

When had he forgotten to hide his emotions? He’d been so good at it, unreadable, a solid black force moving through the world. But here was a man with a pale face and haunted eyes—fear and sorrow mingling, intertwined in his features.

Sorcha shook her head. Their paths had been leading here, to this moment, where he would ask, and she would refuse.

“I can’t.”

“You can!” He raised his voice, angry, frustrated, wanting her to let go of the last vestiges of her life. One she had never really wanted anyway.

“You’re talking as if I have a choice.” Her own voice rose, matching his. “Look around you. This is the final piece. Do you think your prince would let me leave now?”

Adrian shook his head, denial all over his body—face fierce. His eyes burned, reflecting the fire of the torches. She reached out and cupped his cheek, searching his face—determined to take his memory with her.

He leaned into her touch, throat working as he swallowed.

“It was always going to end here,” Sorcha whispered.

“Enough.” Prince Eine’s voice cut across them. “Choose your death, Vessel.”

Without speaking, Sorcha reached for the dagger at Adrian’s hip. The one she’d taken from the tent and cut him with in the forest, the one he’d given her on the sea cliff. It had been passed between them—gifted only to be returned. A shared object, a totem of their bond. He stopped her and shook his head once.

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