Page 58 of Broken Star

“I do,” I reply, and when I glance at Riven, the single nod he gives me shows that he does, too.

“I’ll ask about the Star Disc,” he tells me, steady and determined. “You should use your question to ask about Zoey.”

I narrow my eyes, suspicion flaring.

“Why?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “What’s your angle?”

“There is no angle,” he says calmly, although frost crackles at his fingertips. “It’s strategy.”

“How convenient that your strategy lets you look so selfless while still getting what you want,” I reply, wind stirring around me.

“You don’t have to take the offer if you don’t want to.” He shrugs, his expression carefully neutral. “I just thought you’d be able to focus better on our mission if you know Zoey is safe.”

The casual dismissal stings, even though I know he’s not wrong.

“Fine,” I say shortly, since I’m not going to throw away this opportunity, especially not out of spite for Riven. “I’ll ask about Zoey.”

“If you two are finished,” Circe interrupts, her tone amused, “we should begin preparations. The witching hour approaches, and the veil grows thinnest as midnight passes.”

She gestures for us to follow her to the edge of the circle, where she kneels beside a flat stone that serves as a makeshift altar.

“Place your offerings here,” she instructs. “The barley mixed with honey, the cup, the wine—all of it. I’ll fetch a pig.”

Riven retrieves the items from our pack, laying them out on the stone, both of us intensely aware of the squeal that echoes through the forest as Circe selects a pig.

The undergrowth rustles as she returns, carrying a black-spotted one.

“He will serve our purpose,” she says as she kneels, tenderly stroking his head as she sets him in the center of the circle. “The blood of a sacrifice, to bridge the worlds of the living and the dead.”

I nod, steeling myself for what comes next. After all, since my potion-making abilities are stronger than Riven’s, it makes sense for me to complete this critical step. Just like how I was the one to do it with the dove.

I reach for the ceremonial dagger—one of the two daggers that the cloaked girl gave us—but before my fingers can close around the hilt, Riven swipes it out of my reach and completes the task with swift efficiency. So quickly and cleanly that the pig had no time to feel fear or pain.

Circe smirks slightly. “How merciful of you,” she muses, tilting her head at Riven. “You took his life quickly. No hesitation, no suffering. Not many show such respect for a life taken.”

Riven wipes the blade clean and steps back, refusing to look at me.

I should be grateful. The spell was completed efficiently, as it needed to be. But my skin prickles, my magic rising as I stare at the pool of blood darkening the ritual circle.

“I could have done it.” I take measured breaths, calling on every ounce of control to not snap at him.

“You’ve only killed for a sacrifice when the animal would come back to life, or for sustenance,” he says simply. “This needed to be done without hesitation, by someone who’s completed true sacrifices before. Byme.”

“You didn’t even give me the chance,” I say, wind gathering around my hands as I return my focus to the white stone, which is getting slowly soaked by the pig’s blood, the red stain crawling under the ingredients below it.

So much for control.

Suddenly, fire erupts from Circe’s palms, silencing us both.

“Stand back,” she warns, her golden eyes reflecting the moving light. “We don’t have time for your arguing. It’s my turn now.”

Hovering over the sacrificial stone, the sorceress begins to chant in Ancient Greek, or something even older. The words crackle like the fire in her hands, and with each phrase, the blood sizzles, releasing thin tendrils of silvery vapor that coil upward like seeking fingers.

The whispers grow louder and more distinct—dozens of voices speaking over one another at an increasingly frantic pace.

Then, Circe shoots a ball of fire at the pit, turning the objects in it to ash.

The whispers quiet.Everythingquiets. It’s like we’ve stepped into another plane of existence—a dulled, eerie, nearly muted limbo that’s neither Earth nor the Underworld. I can barely feel the ground beneath my feet or see the stars in the sky.

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