Page 67 of A House of Gold
“Ritual room,” I manage. “Need to...”
“I know.” Croesus steadies me. “Can you walk?”
The pride surges. Of course, you can walk. You’re not weak. You don’t need help from him or anyone.
“Yes.” I pull away from his hands, force my legs to work. They cooperate barely. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I said I’m fine.” The words come out sharp, imperious. “I can handle this. I’ve been doing this for eighteen years. I don’t need you hovering.”
He goes still. Then: “As you wish.”
I walk away before he can say anything else. Before the pride can make me say something worse. The corridors shift around me, but I navigate by instinct now, following the pull of the ritual room like a lodestone.
The ritual room doors are closed. I shove them open, stumble inside, and nearly collapse before I reach the altar.
No. No. I’m not collapsing. I’m stronger than this. Better than this. I’m?—.
I’m dying. The pride is killing me. Seven years of it, concentrated and vicious, trying to convince me I don’t need the ritual, don’t need to purge, don’t need anything except my own exceptional self-sufficiency.
My hands shake as I light the candles. Seven white. Seven black. Seven red. The flames blur together, and I blink hard to focus.
I step into the circle. The wards snap into place. The pride screams in protest, but the circle holds.
I take up the athame. The knife feels too heavy. My left arm burns where the tattoo will form, but I press the blade to my other forearm and cut anyway.
The pain is sharp and immediate and grounding. Cuts through the pride just enough for me to remember the words.
“Ex carne mea, te expello.” From my flesh, I cast you out.
The pride fights every syllable. Tries to choke the words in my throat. Tries to convince me I don’t need this, I’m above this, I’m too perfect for such crude measures.
“Ex anima mea, te solvo.” From my soul, I release you.
Blood drips from my arm. More blood than usual. I cut deeper than I meant to, or maybe the pride made me cut deeper to prove I could take the pain. Either way, there’s too much blood pooling in the circle, dark and viscous.
“Non sum superbia.” I am not pride.
The sin writhes, its fury at being named made manifest.
“Non sum inanis gloria.” I am not vain glory.
My voice is shaking now. I’m shaking. Everything hurts as the seven years of accumulated arrogance tries to tear me apart from the inside.
“Redi ad originem tuam.” Return to your origin.
I squeeze the wound to get more of the blood onto the floor of the circle. It hits the gold inlay and ignites, white flames springing up, fed by my angel blood and my desperation and my need to be free.
“Redi ad dominum tuum.” Return to your master.
The pride screams.
It pours out of me like glass shards, sharp and brutal and agonizing. I can feel it tearing its way up my throat, leaving destruction in its wake. I’m on my knees, hands braced against the obsidian floor, coughing up golden smoke and blood and seven years of someone else’s certainty that they needed no one.
It feels like dying.
It feels like being reborn.
