Page 6 of The Curse of Golden Blood
Perfect.
"It is my task to ensure you survive and fulfill your obligations to this Court," I explained, letting thunder roll through my voice. "The Thunder Court is your home now. From now until death, you belong here." I paused, scanning each face. "For those who would rather die than serve, I offer you a quick and merciful death. Here. Now."
I looked at her again. Miralyte's golden eyes merely hardened, like molten metal cooling into steel.
"Each of you will receive training," I held her burning gaze, as a smile curved my mouth. "Youwilllearn our tongue. Youwilllearn our ways. Youwillfight for the Thunder Court, as countless mortals have before you."
"For your compliance," I continued, "You will receive three meals a day, adequate clothing, housing and care until the day you die. Should you attempt to escape, or show disobedience, your stay at Thunder Court will quickly come to an end."
I faced them again. "There will be no second chances. Break one rule and you die."
The Vessels stared back, their gazes wary, half in shock, half in terror. But none of them spoke or moved.
"Those who prove themselves useful may rise above their station. Those who prove themselves useless will be discarded."
I went on, not allowing for any interruptions. "You will bear an Oath Mark. This mark will bind you, keep you alive, and will only dissolve upon your last breath. "
It was a well understood fact that a fae couldn't lie, so I kept my explanations brief and often allowed their fear to fill in the blanks.
"It is true that we cannot kill or harm you in the ways that you know it. But believe me, there are other, worse ways of inflicting pain."
I let lightning pulse from my fingertips as if to prove my point. Small flashes of electricity twirled around my palm like a hypnotizing, deadly snake. Then, I let it vanish. No need to waste what I had for mortals who were already convinced of their sorry fate.
I turned to Gryven and nodded.
He spoke immediately, using a similar tone that I had used earlier. "When your name is called, step forward to receive your mark."
I stepped back and let him continue.
"First," he spoke, "to Terys Varant."
A tall, muscular male with broad shoulders and dark brown hair stepped forward. I'd chosen him for his strength and the quiet resolve in his dark eyes. He would survive the training, if he was smart.
Gryven pressed two fingers to his marking rune. The sigil flared red, then white-hot. Power flowed through me as I channeled lightning through his mark—a sensation likeswallowing starfire, electric and wild. The magic crackled down my spine, gathering in my chest before I released it.
A bolt of blue-white lightning snapped from Gryven's fingers, striking Terys square on the wrist. The air filled with the scent of burned flesh and ozone.
Terys screamed and collapsed, clutching his arm as the lightning carved into his skin. When he finally struggled to his feet, a complex blue sigil glowed on his wrist, bordered in runic script.
"Terys Varant, you are marked," Gryven announced without emotion. "May you serve the Thunder Court with honor."
One by one, they marched forward. Each marking sent a fresh jolt of power through me—not unpleasant, but requiring careful control. Too little energy and the mark would fade; too much and the mortal would die.
Some collapsed and stayed down, sobbing. Others begged and pleaded. One young man lost control of his bladder, shaking so violently I thought he might faint before the mark took hold. A girl with red hair bit through her tongue trying not to scream.
“Miralyte Tavora,” Gryven called.
She came forward, posture firm, as if daring the mark to hurt her. She held his gaze with unwavering golden eyes as the red lightning laced along the circuit of her wrist, burning her skin.
She did not move an inch as the mark set into her flesh. She did not even flinch.
The bolt struck her wrist with the same force that had felled the others. I watched her face, expecting the cry of pain, the collapse, the submission.
Nothing happened.
The lightning hit her skin and simply... dissipated. Like rain striking stone. No burn. No mark. No reaction at all.
Ice flooded my veins. I felt the blood drain from my face as the impossible registered. In three centuries of Tithes, this had never happened. Could never happen. The Oath Mark was absolute—it bound every mortal, without exception.
