Page 31 of Unlikely Omega

My eyes tear up despite my efforts to keep them dry and it’s with wet cheeks that I reach the Divine Circle where the Synod is waiting, along with a crowd of priests and acolytes.

I flinch when my gaze passes over Artume’s statue. The unnamed god—Sidde—seems to be watching me as I walk past, yanked forward by the two guards.

More acolytes crowd behind me, murmuring and snickering. They are staring at me, I can feel it as a crawling sensation between my shoulder blades.

But that’s the least of my worries.

The smirks on the faces of the high clergy make them look like snakes about to strike. They are happy with the outcome. Therefore, I’m in danger.

High Priestess Arleth in particular looks pleased. I try to glare at her but I’m too shaky. My heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest, like a bird fighting to escape its cage.

There’s also High Priest Elegos, his gaze intense, as if trying to bore a hole through my head. A slight acolyte is standing close to him.

Very close to him, closer than an acolyte would normally do. Beside him, in fact, when she should be standing behind him.

Ismere.

My vision grows blurry again. How is it at times that you think you know someone, that you think you have a relationship that goes deep with ties that bind you like steel cables, only to find out that it had been skimming the surface all along and that those ties were made of flimsy thread at best, ready to snap at the first obstacle?

I imagined a friendship deep like the ocean, like the friendships described between the heroes of old in the epics sung in the Temple festivals, but it had all been in my mind.

The betrayal is a knife in my chest.

“We have reached a decision,” the Prelate says.

A hush falls over the gathering. My pulse accelerates. I can feel it in my throat, behind my eyes. I feel faint.

“We deliberated all night,” he goes on, “pouring our energy and wisdom into this difficult task. These are dangerous times, everyone. You should be careful who you befriend, lest you aid the resurrection of daemons who will come after our blood. Remember history. Remember that we let them through our gates only to be butchered by them. Never forget.”

“Hear, hear,” someone says. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

Let them through our gates? It was us who burst into their cities and butchered them first.

But this is Temple propaganda and the Imperial stance on the matter, and not what should matter to me right now as my fate is being announced.

“This acolyte will be punished,” the Prelate says. “For hiding her true Fae-blood omega nature from us. For dancing in front of the unnamed god. She’s a danger we cannot ignore, a snake in our midst. But before we start, there is one more person under accusation here who will share the accused’s fate.”

What is he talking about? I blink at his placid, bovine face, and I think I see small lights dancing around him. I’m dreaming while standing up. Dreaming that my fate is in the hands of these awful people that I’ve looked up to for years. I thought him distinguished, once. Not anymore. And if his face is bovine, those of his fellow clergymen are porcine, pig-like aberrations, grinning at me.

But the clergy murmur and glance around as the Prelate goes on speaking, platitudes about how they exhausted themselves thinking, making decisions where until now their role consisted mainly in dancing in front of silent statues and gossiping.

So very exhausting, all this excitement, isn’t it?

The crowd gasps and shifts. Looks like they didn’t know about this turn of events. I see. I’m not the only one left in the dark.

Literally left in the dark.

I think the night I spent froze more than my flesh. It froze the marrow of my bones. Froze my emotions so that they emerge slow and sluggish.

Suddenly, Priestess Arleth lets out a low cry. “No!”

That gets my attention, slices through the fog surrounding my thoughts. Why is she so upset now? She looked mighty pleased when I was hauled here to hear about my terrible fate.

And then I see why.

It’s Finnen. He’s dragged over to where I’m standing, his hands tied behind his back, a bloody gash on his cheek. His white hair is loose, hanging over his shoulders and falling in his face, tangled and messy. He looks wild like that, his teeth bared, like a wild animal dragged in with the hunters’ nets.

Why is he here?

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