Origins of Blood (RE)

I curse under my breath, though no sound escapes me.

Everyone is silent. Some are left with mouths open, others with faces polished into marble, listening as though the King's words were nothing more than the gossip of a distant village—troublesome for anyone but themselves.

"For that, let us praise the gods who bestow such blessings upon this continent, that Elisia may shine as brightly in the future as Helios himself."

A normal man might be slaughtered for such a speech if another deity had been named, if another mortal dared speak in that way.

But this is the King, and only a few clauses of the law have the power to hang him. Half of those present are not true believers at all, and those who are—most of them hypocrites—remain carefully silent.

Occasionally, there are genuine believers among us, but even they do not glare at the King for long, lest misfortune follow them later.

Religion does not rule this hall; it belongs more to the middle class, who fuel the war, or to higher-blooded zealots of this continent. The irony is bitter: those who were raised in the tongue of gods do not dare speak to them directly, while those with less privilege must cling to prayers to survive.

Ten heartbeats pass, each quick and drumming against my ribs. I let out a breath I did not realize I held.

Ten more heartbeats follow, and the silence remains, not because of Mephory's presence, but because the room has surrendered itself to prayer—or to the same gnawing thoughts that tear at me.

I close my eyes, and my other senses sharpen. The weight of sweat runs cold down my spine.

Why would a false god—or more than one—give their life to a king, and why now? Why now!

My jaw clenches as the thought claws inside me. I nearly scream it into the open.

I curse it, and then the old question rises again, unwelcome as always. Should I really follow this plan?

My knees weaken as I force air through my lungs, steadying the rhythm of my breath. My fingers clutch the edge of the small, high-standing table, searching for balance as though it were a blind man's cane.

I do not move, but I hold myself there, pressed between Simon and Melissa, the wine trembling in my grip.

Suddenly, words cut through me like a blade in the dark:

"Continue to assassinate the King; we have a way to lure the false god for a minute or two at the shift of the day; be ready at zero o'clock to be in the King's chamber. Follow the plan as it goes and mingle with the crowd again. More information will—"

The voice rips away into silence, like smoke torn apart by wind, leaving me jolted upright in the midst of stillness. The false god's eyes land on me.

My hands remain pressed to the table; my eyes stay closed, though through the narrow gap of my lashes I can still see, blurred and wavering. He watches me. No—its eyes; golden as the mist outside.

Verdant and omnipotent. My hair rises, a cold rush sliding along my spine like icy water.

Don't look. Don't look.

I swallow a hard lump of saliva, and for an instant, I could swear the crowd beside me shifts, as though my own sight betrays me.

"Thank you, everyone. I hope we will all have a pleasant night."

Only after the first murmur of chatter stirs around me do I open my eyes again—fewer heartbeats later than I have fingers—my gaze lifting toward the false god, but it is no longer watching me. Its attention rests on the King.

So, I follow the line of sight, toward the royal family seated above us, a few steps elevated, their plates of untouched steak and wine glowing under the candles topped on chandeliers.

Robertson grins down at his youngest daughter, but her face is withdrawn, her eyes heavy with shadows. She does not meet his look, does not smile. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the meal before her.

Then she rises; without a word, she turns away from the table and departs.

I glance at the watch strapped against my wrist. Half an hour left—only half an hour before I must be in the chamber of their Highness. The time gnaws at me, each minute another strand of rope tightening around my throat.

So, I move, my steps away from the murmuring mass of nobles, the scent of saffron and wine and candle wax pressing in from every side. My path leads me in the same direction the princess has taken.