Page 57 of Kissed By the Gods
I meet his gaze, keeping my chin level. “That’s not for you to decide.”
Tyrston’s eyes darken. “You should be dead. You’re worthless. Nothing special.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing that his words hit something deep.
“Thayana disagrees.”
Leif moves before I can, stepping up beside me with a quiet, casual confidence that somehow makes him even more threatening.
“She belongs here the same as the rest of us,” Leif says, his tone light but unyielding.
Tyrston’s eyes flick to him, his shoulders tensing like he’s ready for a fight.
Leif smiles, going for a lazy, amused grin that doesn’t quite land due to the tension pulling his shoulders taut.
“She killed Maxim,” Tyrston growls.
“The gods killed Maxim.” This from Daon, who stands from his spot at the dice table. He’s in the same cast as Tyrston. As Maxim. “She’s here. You know what the archons said—that’s the end of it. Don’t start anything.”
Tyrston holds my gaze, his expression dark with unspoken threats. Then, without another word, he turns and shoves past another boy on his way to the baths.
Still, the tension lingers, even after the noise of the barracks resumes.
Leif leans in slightly, his voice low. “Don’t worry. Either Kiernan or I will always make sure you’re not alone here.”
I let my body soften, one muscle at a time, forcing myself to relax in my new home.
It smells like aggression, hostility, and bad decisions.
Perfect.
“Humans are stubborn, bleeding things. They love like it matters. They die like it matters. It doesn’t. We take what we need.”
Thayana, Goddess of War and Justice, to Gramnir, God of Strength and Fury
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
My breath catcheswhen I cross the threshold into the Shrine of Vanishing Light. The air is thick with wax and smoke, and the glow of 430 flames—one for each Altor who still breathes—shifts against the stone walls. But the candles for the dead … they’re countless. Thousands of cold, unlit wicks stretch from floor to ceiling, their blackened tips representing lives snuffed out. The sheer number of them makes me pause, my foot hovering in the doorway.
I told Ryot I wasn’t bothered by ghosts, but this … Sweet Serephellethis. Selencian or Faraengardian, it doesn’t matter. All I can think is—may Lako have mercy on their souls.
Someone clears their throat and I drag my gaze from the dead to stare in open-mouthed shock at the living. The Elder is here. His expression is as serene as I’ve ever seen it, but there’s something beneath the calm, something ragged, like he’s seen a thousand of these souls burn to ash and he will see another thousand perish before he’s done.
All four archons are present. Archon Lyathin stands with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s the image of control, every hair in place. Archon Robias—the head of my vanguard—standsbeside him. His good eye meets mine, and he gives me a faint nod. Archon Hilian is the most put together I’ve ever seen him, but he still carries a fresh slash across his cheek with dried blood smeared down the side of his face. Archon Nile stands slightly apart from the others. He wears his scorn openly.
Behind the archons are the men who will be mine after this. Thalric, Nyrica, Caius, Faelon, Leif, and Kiernan.
And Ryot. He’s kneeling in the center of the room, before the Elder, his head bowed. His long blond hair is gathered into a perfect ponytail, not a strand falling loose. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t turn to look at me. But he shifts as I take that step over the threshold, his body pulled toward me, as if something invisible connects us.
The Elder holds a blade. It’s small, elegant even, but wickedly sharp, gleaming black and amber under the flicker of the candlelight. In his other hand is a new, unlit candle.
“Leina Haverlyn,” the Elder says. The name echoes through the chamber. It’s foreign, as if it already doesn’t belong to me. Leina Haverlyn was someone I knew once, long ago. It’s enough to cause tears to pool in my eyes.
The Elder gestures to the right of Ryot with the dagger of adamas. “Kneel.”
