Page 20 of Unlikely Omega

“No, I’m good.”

And why is he interested if I went? He can’t be worried. He doesn’t give a shit about me. The only reason he has asked for me was that he needs an assistant and I was around when he was measuring dicks with Elegos.

Okay, not fair, he stopped Elegos from hurting me, but man, is this confusing. Nobody ever intervened on my behalf before, and I can’t afford to like this man because of it. Finnen has his reasons for doing this, his own interests. Whatever he really wants from me, it’s not my own wellbeing.

I’ll find out what he really wants, sooner or later. Meanwhile, I should stick around because it benefits me and hope I won’t regret it; that it’s not going to make me a target in other ways. Acolytes can be more spiteful than priests and priestesses. Powerlessness is overcompensated through anger and vindictiveness, I’ve found, and the acolytes are plenty vindictive, always ready to throw one of their brethren to the wolves if it means showcasing their own worth to their superiors.

“Are you watching?” He slides a foot forward, his robes stretching to accommodate his stance. His hood has fallen back. His white hair is gathered in a topknot again, highlighting the lines of his long, strong neck and wide shoulders. He raises one arm over his head. “Observe the ritual of midnight.”

What I am observing is his face, still lean and austere but somehow beautiful in the light. Which should be the last thing I notice right now.

“Are you saying I need to stay up until midnight to perform the ritual every night?” I demand.

“Not at this point, but it’s good if you know it.” He lifts his other arm and bends forward from the waist, each move controlled and smooth, strong and graceful.

He’s weird. Why teach me this ritual if he doesn’t want me to perform it? I watch as he effortlessly glides from pose to pose, never faltering. Put a blindfold over my eyes and I’ll crash into every single surface, but watching him, you’d never think he’s blind. His body is like a well-oiled clockwork, steady as a rock in each transition, holding each pose as if he was carved from rock, like one of the statues he is facing.

And goddess Nyx looks down on him with a secret smile, approvingly, her sword raised in one hand.

I can only imagine the powerful body under his robes, the years of practice and exercise to reach such a flawless execution of the ritual. I wonder when he entered the Temple. If his parents gave him up because he’s blind, whereas my mother gave me up for no reason I know.

Don’t you, now?

“She looks like she has the blood.”

I shake my head to clear the echo of Councilor Kaidan’s voice from my ears, take a deep breath—and that proves to be a mistake because I get a good whiff of him, sweaty and warm and oh Goddess, he smells good.

So good. Like almonds and black tea and leather and handsome man, and ow, these cramps are really annoying. They pick up suddenly, almost bowing me over.

He stops, turns his face toward me. “Are you feeling all right?” When I make a questioning noise, he sighs. “Your breathing has accelerated. Are you in pain?”

I don’t want to tell him that I’m having cramps, that my skin is itching and burning, that I think I’ve had my awakening and that something is wrong.

Old books say that in the far past, there were ceremonies and celebrations for when a woman awoke. That it was a joyous time—and out in the countryside, maybe it is. Maybe if you have met someone you like, or expect to find someone you’ll love, then it’s a happy event.

“You may not be human.”

Goddess, stop thinking about this now, Ari. It’s not helping. Just… stop thinking altogether, it has never helped.

“I’m fine,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Finish the ritual. I’m guessing that there are more dances you want to show me.”

It’s late by the time I stumble out of the Temple wing, heading toward the convent. Surely, he doesn’t expect me to remember all that? And what is it all for, in case he falls sick? He doesn’t look sickly at all.

My mind keeps replaying the way he’d moved, the muscles outlined on his arms through the black sleeves of his robes, the way his muscular thighs sometimes stretched the fabric as he adopted wide stances.

Why is it that every time I think of him that way the cramps get worse, though?

Damned cramps. They distract me so much I almost miss the trap.

My foot knocks against something and I stumble, barely keeping my balance and avoiding falling on my face. Staggering, my arms held out, I instinctively turn and duck.

A weapon whistles over my head.

“Losing your touch, Ari. What’s going on with you?” It’s one of the acolytes, Dreon. Another of Artume’s followers, like me, only he has arrived here only recently and thinks it’s fun to ambush me once in a while.

“Leave it, Dreon. Not in the mood.”

“No? You don’t want to spar a little? Or practice the dances you learned tonight with the blind priest? Are you sure?”

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