Page 95 of The Curse of Golden Blood
The real one.
The room stretched up into darkness above me. Silver lines ran through black stone walls like veins of lightning frozen in place. They pulsed with soft light that made my skin look pale as bone. The floor was carved marble, white and cold under my bare feet. Circles of stone surrounded a raised altar in the center. Black obsidian that reflected nothing.
I walked to the altar and ran my hands over its surface. Smooth. Waiting. The books had given me nothing useful. They only said high fae could open portals here. No details. No instructions. Every high fae already knew what to do.
I searched for a handle. Some kind of mechanism. There had to be a magical artifact somewhere. Something to activate the portal magic.
There was only the altar.
I stared at it, my mind racing. There had to be something I was missing. Some hidden compartment or secret panel. Ancient fae magic wouldn't be so simple as just touching stone.
But then again, maybe it was exactly that simple.
An altar. Altars were for offerings. For sacrifice. For blood.
My fingers found the scissors beneath my skirts, hidden against my thigh. I drew them out slowly, the blade catching the pale light from the silver veins.
I drew the sharp edge along the tip of my finger, pressing deep.
Pain blossomed across the pad of my fingertip. Blood welled, dark red and warm. I smeared it across the center of the altar.
"Please."
Nothing happened.
The blood hit the obsidian surface and pooled there. Ordinary.
I squeezed my fist tighter, forcing more to drip down. Still nothing.
Then the altar began to drink.
Light spread from where my blood had touched the stone, racing outward in veins that mirrored the silver patterns on the walls. The chamber filled with energy that made my teeth ache and my bones hum. The carved circles in the marble floor blazed to life, one after another, until the entire room pulsed like a giant heartbeat.
Above me, the ceiling cracked.
Not stone breaking, but reality itself tearing open. A hairline fracture of brilliant white light split the darkness, widening with each pulse of power from the altar. Thunder rolled through the chamber. The earth shook beneath my feet.
This was it. The portal. The answer I'd been seeking.
I stepped into the blinding light.
twenty-six
The Changeling
Zydar
Thecouncilchamberfeltsmaller in the dead of night. Torchlight flickered against stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to pulse with the infected veins now spreading beneath my skin. I kept my distance from the others, positioning myself near the far wall where the darkness could hide what I'd become.
The black rot had climbed higher since this afternoon. Dark tendrils now crept up my neck like grasping fingers, and I could feel the poison working its way through my system with each heartbeat.
Gryven took his usual position at my right hand, though I made certain to stay well beyond arm's reach. His pale eyes tracked my every movement, cataloguing details like the strategist he was. Beside him, Narietta settled into her chair with fae grace.
High Healer Varlath occupied the seat closest to me, his ancient hands folded over scrolls filled with experimental notes. He'd been the one to propose the heart extraction, his centuries of medical knowledge twisted into something darker by desperation.
Captain Kaelen of the Shadow Guard, Commander Velora of the Storm Wings were also here. At the far end, Councilor Thane spoke for the noble houses, while Master Seer Zoreth handled matters of prophecy and ancient lore.
Eight voices that would decide Miralyte's fate. Eight fae who thought they understood the cost of what they were about to demand.
