Page 83 of Fading Sun

A knot of unease twists in my stomach.

“This place is a shrine to sacrifice,” I say. “We need to be careful.”

“It’s the temple of Ratnasambhava,” Damien says. “The Buddha of generosity and sacrifice.”

Amber steps closer to the sacrificial bowl, peering into its depths. “What do you think we’re supposed to do?” she asks.

“Cut off our pinkies and toss them in?” Blaze shrugs. “Hell if I know.”

I shudder at the thought of losing any limbs in this place.

Or of losing any limbs ever. Because even though supernatural healing would allow them to regenerate, I’m not sure the same healing rule applies to sacrificial rituals.

Before we can throw any more theories out there, the Buddha’s eyes open, revealing deep, contemplative irises that feel like they’re piercing into my soul.

“Welcome, seekers of abundance, to your third challenge,” the Buddha says, his deep, resonant voice filling the chamber. “To prove your worth and pass my trial, you must demonstrate true sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” Damien asks, his voice steady.

“You must each sacrifice something you carry with you that holds deep value, to feed the temple,” the Buddha says. “If the item does not hold true value, the sacrificial bowl will deny the offering, and you will not be allowed to pass through to the next challenge.”

My heart sinks. I already sacrificed the Wraithmist Flask to the Kobold, so Blaze and I could cross the bridge in the Alps to the mystical realm.

What else am I willing to part with?

There should really be a cap on sacrificial offerings. One per week? One per month?

If this continues, I’ll eventually have nothing left.

Blaze steps forward, his brow furrowing. “How do we know if the bowl will accept our offering?” he asks.

“You will know,” the Buddha replies simply, giving us nothing other than that.

I nod, my mind racing, my fingers reaching for the small, silver pendant I wear around my neck. An interwoven pentacle and flame—the symbol of the Blood Coven.

My parents gave me and my sisters the matching necklaces when we were young. It’s the only thing of theirs I carry with me. It’s the thing I most remember them by.

My heart aches at the thought of giving it to the Buddha.

I can’t part with it. I just can’t.

So, what else do I have?

Amber steps up to the sacrificial bowl, her face set with determination.

She’s so fearless—so confident in her decisions—and my admiration for her grows the more time I spend with her. Damien might call her impulsive and reckless, but I see her as brave and daring.

She takes a deep breath and tugs at her wedding ring, her knuckles whitening as she pulls and twists.

“It’s stuck,” she mutters, her voice laced with frustration. “It’s like it’s infused into my skin.”

Damien’s expression shifts, hurt crossing his eyes, wind stirring around him. “Were you really going to sacrifice our ring?” he asks.

Amber glares at him, her face set with determination. “Would you have cared?”

“Yes,” he all but growls. “You’re my wife. Of course I’d care.”

“Oh.” She steps back, as if that wasn’t the reaction she expected.

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