Deleted Scene #1--Prologue
I loved this scene because it shows the depth of Velius's madness when he returns to Kapelle. It also internalizes Gaultier's conflict with his brother. We cut it because those characteristics showed up a little later in subtler ways.
Crenet:
Coronam Tempus 335.001
How dare you come here, you backstabber!
A mighty marble pillar protected Gaultier from sight as he watched Almus escort the young man toward the altar. It took some nerve for Velius to show his face among the Logia, but particularly here at Kapelle. His deceit echoed off the cavernous walls of the chapel, although Gaultier was probably the only one to hear it amidst the repentant pleading.
“Castus!” the traitor bellowed. He would wake the others if he wasn’t quiet. But why would he care? Never did before. He yanked his arm from Almus. “Let go. Castus, I need you!”
Athaer Castus emerged from his study, eyes wide and jaw open. He raised his arms as he rushed down the tiered steps of the platform. “A little reverence, please,” the athaer said. “You are in the house of the Crown.”
Stepping forward, the good-for-nothing threw himself to the floor. A pathetic wail erupted from his crumpled form. Surely, his appearance was meant to elicit sympathy. His dark hair, normally worn long and wrapped in a cord, stuck out from his skull in wild tangles. The dingy gray tatters he wore hung on him in a size too big, exposing his shoulder and side. The threadbare pants were shredded from his knees to his ankles, and Gaultier briefly entertained the notion that Velius might have walked through a field of razor blades. No such luck, though. Velius’s bare feet showed no signs of blood.
It’s all a show, Athaer. Don’t fall for it.
“I will speak with him.” The athaer waved a hand toward Almus to dismiss him. “Leave us now.”
“Athaer,” Almus protested, his mouth set in an unwavering line.
Almus was wise, although he was young to be in such a high station. He had to see through this ruse. Velius’s demonstration of contrition was clearly rehearsed. Nothing about this felt genuine. If only Castus would listen to Almus and not be so trusting.
“We will be fine here in the nave,” Castus reassured with a paternal sternness. “It is late. Get your rest.”
Almus bowed his head, slow and measured. His eyes remained on the man in question until he turned and marched back down the long center aisle. Castus waited until Almus was out of earshot before he spoke.
“Velius Lassiter,” Castus said. The mention of the young man’s name carried both surprise and reprimand. How Castus did that, Gaultier would never know.
Velius skittered across the floor, grasping at the athaer’s robe. He kneaded the dark red velvet between his fingers as he glanced up toward Castus with a tearful gaze. Gaultier rolled his eyes. He’d seen Velius give dramatic performances before. The double-crosser excelled at histrionics. One of his many cunning skills.
Don’t let him fool you, Athaer.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Castus said, his hands gripping Velius’s shoulders.
You’re right. He shouldn’t have.
“I had nowhere else to turn,” Velius dropped his chin to weep into the fabric he held. He kissed it before looking up again. “Please, Athaer, I need your help.”
No, he doesn’t. He’s lying. Again.
Castus angled his head, staring down at Velius. “I’ve offered my help on numerous occasions, only for you to reject me. Why do you come to me now? After you’ve committed such flagrant violations of our beliefs?”
“I didn’t kill them,” Velius said through gritted teeth. The hem of the athaer’s robe crushed in the grip of his now clenched hands.
The floor seemed to give way under Gaultier. He started to step from the pillar, but an almost tangible restraint kept him in his hiding place. He was alone. It had to be the Crown. Tears stung his eyes while his chest heaved with the desire for air. His fingers balled into tight fists. I want to hurt him, my King. With my bare hands. And I know I should feel otherwise, but I don’t. He pressed his face against the pillar. The cold marble eased away the fire in his forehead and cheeks. Forgive me. Please. Gaultier leaned into the stone support and continued to listen.
“You may not have wielded the weapon, Velius, but your involvement was evident,” Castus said.
He was responsible. You know that, Athaer. Forgiveness is not yours to grant.
“I didn’t know Raum and his lackeys would take it that far, Athaer. I tried to stop him. Them. I did, but it was…too late,” Velius cried, once again bowing low on the floor. He took a deep, shuddery breath and lifted his eyes to the athaer. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m through with them.”
Raum took you away. Changed you. And he doesn’t let go. You said so yourself.
“I’ve heard it before, Velius.” Castus turned away with a shake of his head and his hands raised.
“I mean it this time.” Velius snaked behind Castus. “I need a life change, Athaer. I cannot continue down this path.”
Planting himself in front of the athaer, Velius opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He covered his face with his hands. After a drawn-out moment, he said, “I renounce the Strages, and I again offer my life to the Crown.”
Could it be? Gaultier closed his eyes, his heart fluttering. He’d fallen for Velius’s lies before. Stumbling upon such hurt again would destroy him…and yet, part of him wanted to trust. Wanted to believe. Was Velius really at that turning point? Could he be willing to make that change?
Probably not. No sense in getting hopes up.
Castus spun around, looking at Velius. “What do you want me to do, Velius? I can teach you. I can show you the correct path. But I cannot make you choose it. And I cannot make amends between you and Gaultier.”
Don’t even try.
Falling back onto the floor, Velius hung his head. “He is still your prize, isn’t he?”
Gaultier ground his fingernails against the rough stone. He and Velius had been close once. Jealousy had placed a bitter wedge between them, bigger and stronger than the pillar that towered over him. It drove Velius away, causing him to seek respect and admiration from other venues. Darker venues. When Gaultier learned that Velius had committed his gifts to the Strages, a little part of him died. Velius only had to look to Gaultier to find the respect and admiration he desired.
But that was years ago. And many other wedges had cropped up since then.
With a sigh, Castus moved closer to Velius. “Gaultier is extraordinarily gifted. He is highly favored among the Logia, as was your father. You know that. I am only doing my best to prepare him—”
“He will not take on the responsibility of Protector,” Velius scowled at Castus. “If you believe he will, then you are as misguided as—”
“He is young yet, Velius.” Castus spoke over Velius’s words. “When the question is posed, his decision will be made with the full knowledge and weight of what faces him.”
I don’t want to be Protector. It’s not my calling.
Castus shook his head and jabbed a finger toward Velius. “But we are not here to discuss him. This is about you.”
The tension in Gaultier’s fingers relaxed, and he once again leaned fully against the broad column. Thank you, Athaer. He peered out to see the athaer lifting his robes to kneel next to Velius. With another sigh, Castus said, “I will give you shelter in the outer buildings for three weeks. If you prove yourself by then, I will allow you to bunk with the others and resume your lessons.”
Gaultier bit his lip as he fought the urge to shout his protest. Yes, everyone deserves a second—maybe even a third—chance, but Velius had run his course. His offenses were simply unforgivable. As followers of the Crown, the Logia were called to forgive the wrongdoings of others, but Velius and his Strages friends had robbed Gaultier of that inclination. In their discussions, Castus had assured Gaultier that his feelings were understandable for the time being, but in the long run, he should seek to find forgiveness for Velius.
“Thank you, Athaer.” Velius scrambled to sit on his heels. He took the older man’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Thank you.”
“You have much work to do,” Castus said. “Don’t thank me just yet.”
“I am grateful for your generosity,” Velius said, an uncertain smile playing on his lips.
“Let’s get you settled.” Castus rose. He offered Velius a hand.
Velius gripped the older man’s fingers and stood, his full height taking him head and shoulders above the athaer. He clutched Castus’s hand, looking very much like an oversized toddler. “I am sorry, Athaer,” he whispered.
“I know,” Castus nodded. “But I am not the one you need to say that to.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Velius’s smoldering eyes locked on Gaultier. The breath in Gaultier’s lungs vanished as he ducked behind the pillar, but not before catching Velius’s look of hatred dissolve back into the piteous mask of sorrow. Sliding down the pillar to the floor, Gaultier curled over his knees, trying to find the strength to pray. He batted at his wet eyes with the backs of his hands. Will I ever be free?
How dare you come here, you backstabber!
A mighty marble pillar protected Gaultier from sight as he watched Almus escort the young man toward the altar. It took some nerve for Velius to show his face among the Logia, but particularly here at Kapelle. His deceit echoed off the cavernous walls of the chapel, although Gaultier was probably the only one to hear it amidst the repentant pleading.
“Castus!” the traitor bellowed. He would wake the others if he wasn’t quiet. But why would he care? Never did before. He yanked his arm from Almus. “Let go. Castus, I need you!”
Athaer Castus emerged from his study, eyes wide and jaw open. He raised his arms as he rushed down the tiered steps of the platform. “A little reverence, please,” the athaer said. “You are in the house of the Crown.”
Stepping forward, the good-for-nothing threw himself to the floor. A pathetic wail erupted from his crumpled form. Surely, his appearance was meant to elicit sympathy. His dark hair, normally worn long and wrapped in a cord, stuck out from his skull in wild tangles. The dingy gray tatters he wore hung on him in a size too big, exposing his shoulder and side. The threadbare pants were shredded from his knees to his ankles, and Gaultier briefly entertained the notion that Velius might have walked through a field of razor blades. No such luck, though. Velius’s bare feet showed no signs of blood.
It’s all a show, Athaer. Don’t fall for it.
“I will speak with him.” The athaer waved a hand toward Almus to dismiss him. “Leave us now.”
“Athaer,” Almus protested, his mouth set in an unwavering line.
Almus was wise, although he was young to be in such a high station. He had to see through this ruse. Velius’s demonstration of contrition was clearly rehearsed. Nothing about this felt genuine. If only Castus would listen to Almus and not be so trusting.
“We will be fine here in the nave,” Castus reassured with a paternal sternness. “It is late. Get your rest.”
Almus bowed his head, slow and measured. His eyes remained on the man in question until he turned and marched back down the long center aisle. Castus waited until Almus was out of earshot before he spoke.
“Velius Lassiter,” Castus said. The mention of the young man’s name carried both surprise and reprimand. How Castus did that, Gaultier would never know.
Velius skittered across the floor, grasping at the athaer’s robe. He kneaded the dark red velvet between his fingers as he glanced up toward Castus with a tearful gaze. Gaultier rolled his eyes. He’d seen Velius give dramatic performances before. The double-crosser excelled at histrionics. One of his many cunning skills.
Don’t let him fool you, Athaer.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Castus said, his hands gripping Velius’s shoulders.
You’re right. He shouldn’t have.
“I had nowhere else to turn,” Velius dropped his chin to weep into the fabric he held. He kissed it before looking up again. “Please, Athaer, I need your help.”
No, he doesn’t. He’s lying. Again.
Castus angled his head, staring down at Velius. “I’ve offered my help on numerous occasions, only for you to reject me. Why do you come to me now? After you’ve committed such flagrant violations of our beliefs?”
“I didn’t kill them,” Velius said through gritted teeth. The hem of the athaer’s robe crushed in the grip of his now clenched hands.
The floor seemed to give way under Gaultier. He started to step from the pillar, but an almost tangible restraint kept him in his hiding place. He was alone. It had to be the Crown. Tears stung his eyes while his chest heaved with the desire for air. His fingers balled into tight fists. I want to hurt him, my King. With my bare hands. And I know I should feel otherwise, but I don’t. He pressed his face against the pillar. The cold marble eased away the fire in his forehead and cheeks. Forgive me. Please. Gaultier leaned into the stone support and continued to listen.
“You may not have wielded the weapon, Velius, but your involvement was evident,” Castus said.
He was responsible. You know that, Athaer. Forgiveness is not yours to grant.
“I didn’t know Raum and his lackeys would take it that far, Athaer. I tried to stop him. Them. I did, but it was…too late,” Velius cried, once again bowing low on the floor. He took a deep, shuddery breath and lifted his eyes to the athaer. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m through with them.”
Raum took you away. Changed you. And he doesn’t let go. You said so yourself.
“I’ve heard it before, Velius.” Castus turned away with a shake of his head and his hands raised.
“I mean it this time.” Velius snaked behind Castus. “I need a life change, Athaer. I cannot continue down this path.”
Planting himself in front of the athaer, Velius opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He covered his face with his hands. After a drawn-out moment, he said, “I renounce the Strages, and I again offer my life to the Crown.”
Could it be? Gaultier closed his eyes, his heart fluttering. He’d fallen for Velius’s lies before. Stumbling upon such hurt again would destroy him…and yet, part of him wanted to trust. Wanted to believe. Was Velius really at that turning point? Could he be willing to make that change?
Probably not. No sense in getting hopes up.
Castus spun around, looking at Velius. “What do you want me to do, Velius? I can teach you. I can show you the correct path. But I cannot make you choose it. And I cannot make amends between you and Gaultier.”
Don’t even try.
Falling back onto the floor, Velius hung his head. “He is still your prize, isn’t he?”
Gaultier ground his fingernails against the rough stone. He and Velius had been close once. Jealousy had placed a bitter wedge between them, bigger and stronger than the pillar that towered over him. It drove Velius away, causing him to seek respect and admiration from other venues. Darker venues. When Gaultier learned that Velius had committed his gifts to the Strages, a little part of him died. Velius only had to look to Gaultier to find the respect and admiration he desired.
But that was years ago. And many other wedges had cropped up since then.
With a sigh, Castus moved closer to Velius. “Gaultier is extraordinarily gifted. He is highly favored among the Logia, as was your father. You know that. I am only doing my best to prepare him—”
“He will not take on the responsibility of Protector,” Velius scowled at Castus. “If you believe he will, then you are as misguided as—”
“He is young yet, Velius.” Castus spoke over Velius’s words. “When the question is posed, his decision will be made with the full knowledge and weight of what faces him.”
I don’t want to be Protector. It’s not my calling.
Castus shook his head and jabbed a finger toward Velius. “But we are not here to discuss him. This is about you.”
The tension in Gaultier’s fingers relaxed, and he once again leaned fully against the broad column. Thank you, Athaer. He peered out to see the athaer lifting his robes to kneel next to Velius. With another sigh, Castus said, “I will give you shelter in the outer buildings for three weeks. If you prove yourself by then, I will allow you to bunk with the others and resume your lessons.”
Gaultier bit his lip as he fought the urge to shout his protest. Yes, everyone deserves a second—maybe even a third—chance, but Velius had run his course. His offenses were simply unforgivable. As followers of the Crown, the Logia were called to forgive the wrongdoings of others, but Velius and his Strages friends had robbed Gaultier of that inclination. In their discussions, Castus had assured Gaultier that his feelings were understandable for the time being, but in the long run, he should seek to find forgiveness for Velius.
“Thank you, Athaer.” Velius scrambled to sit on his heels. He took the older man’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Thank you.”
“You have much work to do,” Castus said. “Don’t thank me just yet.”
“I am grateful for your generosity,” Velius said, an uncertain smile playing on his lips.
“Let’s get you settled.” Castus rose. He offered Velius a hand.
Velius gripped the older man’s fingers and stood, his full height taking him head and shoulders above the athaer. He clutched Castus’s hand, looking very much like an oversized toddler. “I am sorry, Athaer,” he whispered.
“I know,” Castus nodded. “But I am not the one you need to say that to.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Velius’s smoldering eyes locked on Gaultier. The breath in Gaultier’s lungs vanished as he ducked behind the pillar, but not before catching Velius’s look of hatred dissolve back into the piteous mask of sorrow. Sliding down the pillar to the floor, Gaultier curled over his knees, trying to find the strength to pray. He batted at his wet eyes with the backs of his hands. Will I ever be free?
Deleted Scene #2--Marcella's Backstory
In an earlier draft, I included a scene about Marcella and her relationship with Lucian and the Strages. This gives a glimpse of a ritual in the Strages faith, and it ties in with a later scene when Raum captures Hanileh. I cut it because it was unnecessary backstory. It shows the original time signature and a couple of characters I got rid of. The opening attack scene took its place.
FERUS: DAY 121545 BGA
Upon Lucian’s order, his small band of followers—the Gathering—left the security of the massive fortress on Venenum and traveled to Ferus. The landscape wasn’t much more hospitable, but quite different from Venenum. Formidable expanses of red rock stretched in deserted plains, giving way to acidic storms breaking on the horizon. Lucian directed them to a labyrinth of caves, carved into the rocks by past chemical-laced flooding.
Before they reached the mouth of the cave, Lucian snatched a hefty branch from the rocky ground. The novice, as she was called, found it odd that the branch was left behind, as there was no evidence of trees anywhere. Nevertheless, standing at the entrance, Lucian murmured a few soft words, producing a peculiar green flame in his palm. He then commanded Banshee to hand over one of her long red scarves. The woman grudgingly untied a scarf from her waist and wound it around the end of the branch, and Lucian set it afire before leading them deep into cave system.
The green flame didn’t give off much light. Lucian halted in the middle of an open area and gave the torch to Banshee. “Light the pillars,” he instructed.
The novice took in his words, wondering what he meant. The way he spoke, she probably should have known what he was talking about. She didn’t, which filled her with shame. Stepping back toward the cave wall, she noticed that it tapered down from the ceiling and formed a natural arch on both sides. A pillar.
Banshee lowered the torch to the base. The blaze licked the rock and climbed upward. No heat came from the flame. In fact, it gave the novice a chill. She shivered as she watched Banshee move to the next pillar. There were five in all, forming a ring around what appeared to be an altar.
Lucian stood behind the two stalagmites that rose in the middle of the open area. A slab of rock balanced atop the formations held candles tipped with the same green flame. He closed his eyes, his face lifted to the top of the cave. His arms were outstretched, palms upward. The novice recognized a look of pain on his face, yet he murmured foreign words and sounds in prayer.
She thought Lucian Thaedrial rather handsome, despite her penetrating fear of him. His dark hair was always slicked back against his head. On the very fringes of her memory, she could see him with beautiful blue eyes, but they had gradually lost their color, taking on an icy, distant chill. He always dressed impeccably, with properly fitting suits in elegant cuts and colors. The others admired him—and feared him—as she did.
She never remembered a time without Lucian. He had crafted her at a very young age, before she understood how he used pain to motivate and control her. With the soft light brown of her hair, and her warm brown eyes, she knew that Lucian was no relation to her. Still, she knew nothing of her identity, where she came from, or even how old she was. Lucian gave little credence to time. Once, when he was in a peculiarly good mood, she had asked her age. He said she must have been close to twelve. That was four years ago. Lucian acted as her leader, her educator, and recently, he’d expressed his intention to take her as his bride. This announcement earned an even deeper hatred from Banshee. But the novice had pleased Lucian with her recent accomplishments, slaying many Logia in their quest to end the belief in the Crown. That was, in fact, why they traveled to Ferus. Lucian proclaimed it time for a ritual to induct her into the arms of their little family. And then, he would lay claim to her as his bride. She had indeed earned her place.
The murmurings stopped as Lucian stared her from across the way. He looked at her with eyes not his own. Another shiver coursed through the novice as Lucian stepped around the rock slab toward her, his hand extended. She glanced toward Banshee, who had finished lighting the room. The tall red-clothed woman’s painted face twisted into a frightening sneer. Banshee had made it plain that she wanted Lucian for herself. But Lucian hadn’t chosen her.
“My children, today is a proud day,” Lucian pronounced in ceremony as he took the novice’s hand in his, presenting her to the quintet of witnesses. He led her to the stone altar, placing her hand flat upon the rock between the lit candles. He reached for her other hand, situating it on the rock as well. “Our young novice has discovered her power, and today, she receives her name and her first markings.”
Reverent silence replaced reluctant cheers and applause as Lucian closed his eyes, pressing his hands upon hers. She took a breath as a sting twitched through her fingers. Lucian had warned her that it would get much more intense, but that the esteem she would receive from the Gathering would far outweigh the pain.
She’d finally earned the markings by assisting Lucian and the others in a skirmish against several Logia. In the heat of battle, she’d called upon a power beyond her—one that gave her a supernatural strength. A wellspring of energy manifested from her core, exploding outward to those in her path. Weaponless, she had single-handedly slain three of the Logia, enough to receive the honorary markings Lucian started to bestow upon his followers.
She closed her eyes. Fire licked her hands, sizzling into her arms. Lucian gripped her fingers tightly now, so she couldn’t pull away if she wanted to. His vice tightened as the pain raged, burning her from the inside out. The burning turned to an excruciating sensation of millions of tiny stabbing needles beings forced into her veins. He’d warned her not to cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—
She felt her knees start to give, but as she weakened, the pain ebbed away. Her heart rang in her ears, and her breath came in heavy gusts. Is it really over?
“Open your eyes, my child,” Lucian instructed, lifting her hands from the rock with his own.
She looked at him before lowering her gaze to her hands. Intricate black scrollwork covered her fingers and the backs of her hands, trailing over her wrists and up her arms. It was beautiful—and ghastly—at the same time.
He pulled her around to the front of the altar, once again presenting her to the Gathering. “Carnifex has spoken the name of the novice. She receives the name Marcella, for she has battled as his warrior and gained victory as his servant.”
The witnesses bowed their heads, murmuring low whispers of devotion to Lucian’s god, Carnifex. Banshee glared at Marcella before joining in the respectful display. Marcella blinked, her eyes once again drawn to her hands. She should be filled with pride, and yet regret and humiliation threatened her satisfaction. She couldn’t stop thinking about the eyes of the Logia as she took their lives. Beyond the fear of death that she had seen in previous slayings, their eyes held peace and reassurance. It was as if they weren’t just being separated from this life, but that they were going home to family.
Family. Marcella looked up again at those who surrounded her. Kaesh—bald by his choice, and muscular. He was probably the most dedicated to Lucian, aside from Marcella. Madigan—young and thick, both physically and mentally. He’d tried to solicit favor from Marcella on more than one occasion, but she always rebuffed him. Specter—short, scrawny, and pale. Marcella wouldn’t trust him for anything. Hanlon—a near-replica of Lucian, but not as sophisticated. He was cold, and as slippery as Specter. And Banshee—a beauty hidden under layers of black and white face paint and swirls of red cloth. Marcella had once tried to befriend Banshee, only to receive a shocking screech that deafened her for a good week. The Gathering was the only family she’d known.
And that unsettled her.
Upon Lucian’s order, his small band of followers—the Gathering—left the security of the massive fortress on Venenum and traveled to Ferus. The landscape wasn’t much more hospitable, but quite different from Venenum. Formidable expanses of red rock stretched in deserted plains, giving way to acidic storms breaking on the horizon. Lucian directed them to a labyrinth of caves, carved into the rocks by past chemical-laced flooding.
Before they reached the mouth of the cave, Lucian snatched a hefty branch from the rocky ground. The novice, as she was called, found it odd that the branch was left behind, as there was no evidence of trees anywhere. Nevertheless, standing at the entrance, Lucian murmured a few soft words, producing a peculiar green flame in his palm. He then commanded Banshee to hand over one of her long red scarves. The woman grudgingly untied a scarf from her waist and wound it around the end of the branch, and Lucian set it afire before leading them deep into cave system.
The green flame didn’t give off much light. Lucian halted in the middle of an open area and gave the torch to Banshee. “Light the pillars,” he instructed.
The novice took in his words, wondering what he meant. The way he spoke, she probably should have known what he was talking about. She didn’t, which filled her with shame. Stepping back toward the cave wall, she noticed that it tapered down from the ceiling and formed a natural arch on both sides. A pillar.
Banshee lowered the torch to the base. The blaze licked the rock and climbed upward. No heat came from the flame. In fact, it gave the novice a chill. She shivered as she watched Banshee move to the next pillar. There were five in all, forming a ring around what appeared to be an altar.
Lucian stood behind the two stalagmites that rose in the middle of the open area. A slab of rock balanced atop the formations held candles tipped with the same green flame. He closed his eyes, his face lifted to the top of the cave. His arms were outstretched, palms upward. The novice recognized a look of pain on his face, yet he murmured foreign words and sounds in prayer.
She thought Lucian Thaedrial rather handsome, despite her penetrating fear of him. His dark hair was always slicked back against his head. On the very fringes of her memory, she could see him with beautiful blue eyes, but they had gradually lost their color, taking on an icy, distant chill. He always dressed impeccably, with properly fitting suits in elegant cuts and colors. The others admired him—and feared him—as she did.
She never remembered a time without Lucian. He had crafted her at a very young age, before she understood how he used pain to motivate and control her. With the soft light brown of her hair, and her warm brown eyes, she knew that Lucian was no relation to her. Still, she knew nothing of her identity, where she came from, or even how old she was. Lucian gave little credence to time. Once, when he was in a peculiarly good mood, she had asked her age. He said she must have been close to twelve. That was four years ago. Lucian acted as her leader, her educator, and recently, he’d expressed his intention to take her as his bride. This announcement earned an even deeper hatred from Banshee. But the novice had pleased Lucian with her recent accomplishments, slaying many Logia in their quest to end the belief in the Crown. That was, in fact, why they traveled to Ferus. Lucian proclaimed it time for a ritual to induct her into the arms of their little family. And then, he would lay claim to her as his bride. She had indeed earned her place.
The murmurings stopped as Lucian stared her from across the way. He looked at her with eyes not his own. Another shiver coursed through the novice as Lucian stepped around the rock slab toward her, his hand extended. She glanced toward Banshee, who had finished lighting the room. The tall red-clothed woman’s painted face twisted into a frightening sneer. Banshee had made it plain that she wanted Lucian for herself. But Lucian hadn’t chosen her.
“My children, today is a proud day,” Lucian pronounced in ceremony as he took the novice’s hand in his, presenting her to the quintet of witnesses. He led her to the stone altar, placing her hand flat upon the rock between the lit candles. He reached for her other hand, situating it on the rock as well. “Our young novice has discovered her power, and today, she receives her name and her first markings.”
Reverent silence replaced reluctant cheers and applause as Lucian closed his eyes, pressing his hands upon hers. She took a breath as a sting twitched through her fingers. Lucian had warned her that it would get much more intense, but that the esteem she would receive from the Gathering would far outweigh the pain.
She’d finally earned the markings by assisting Lucian and the others in a skirmish against several Logia. In the heat of battle, she’d called upon a power beyond her—one that gave her a supernatural strength. A wellspring of energy manifested from her core, exploding outward to those in her path. Weaponless, she had single-handedly slain three of the Logia, enough to receive the honorary markings Lucian started to bestow upon his followers.
She closed her eyes. Fire licked her hands, sizzling into her arms. Lucian gripped her fingers tightly now, so she couldn’t pull away if she wanted to. His vice tightened as the pain raged, burning her from the inside out. The burning turned to an excruciating sensation of millions of tiny stabbing needles beings forced into her veins. He’d warned her not to cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—
She felt her knees start to give, but as she weakened, the pain ebbed away. Her heart rang in her ears, and her breath came in heavy gusts. Is it really over?
“Open your eyes, my child,” Lucian instructed, lifting her hands from the rock with his own.
She looked at him before lowering her gaze to her hands. Intricate black scrollwork covered her fingers and the backs of her hands, trailing over her wrists and up her arms. It was beautiful—and ghastly—at the same time.
He pulled her around to the front of the altar, once again presenting her to the Gathering. “Carnifex has spoken the name of the novice. She receives the name Marcella, for she has battled as his warrior and gained victory as his servant.”
The witnesses bowed their heads, murmuring low whispers of devotion to Lucian’s god, Carnifex. Banshee glared at Marcella before joining in the respectful display. Marcella blinked, her eyes once again drawn to her hands. She should be filled with pride, and yet regret and humiliation threatened her satisfaction. She couldn’t stop thinking about the eyes of the Logia as she took their lives. Beyond the fear of death that she had seen in previous slayings, their eyes held peace and reassurance. It was as if they weren’t just being separated from this life, but that they were going home to family.
Family. Marcella looked up again at those who surrounded her. Kaesh—bald by his choice, and muscular. He was probably the most dedicated to Lucian, aside from Marcella. Madigan—young and thick, both physically and mentally. He’d tried to solicit favor from Marcella on more than one occasion, but she always rebuffed him. Specter—short, scrawny, and pale. Marcella wouldn’t trust him for anything. Hanlon—a near-replica of Lucian, but not as sophisticated. He was cold, and as slippery as Specter. And Banshee—a beauty hidden under layers of black and white face paint and swirls of red cloth. Marcella had once tried to befriend Banshee, only to receive a shocking screech that deafened her for a good week. The Gathering was the only family she’d known.
And that unsettled her.
© 2022 Ashley Bazer
