Page 25 of Godbound
“I, Raylane Troubelle, pledge myself as your champion.” Bloodsmears the goddess’s altar.
The silence is deafening. As I look over the crowd, I see the same disgust that darkened their faces before Brienne’s attempted lashing.
Nobody moves. A heartbeat passes. Then another.
The temple itself seems to hold its breath. The scent of blood thickens, iron and incense mingling in the air. A shiver climbs my spine, cold and unrelenting, as I wait for something, anything, to happen.
A murmur ripples through the gathered crowd, hesitant, uncertain.
A shadow shifts and something is flung over my head. A noose tightens around my neck. A vicious yank hauls me backward, slamming me onto the naked marble floor.
Voices rise in shouts, words of hatred cracking through the temple. All sorts of objects begin to pelt me from the crowd—fans, cups, even a handkerchief—as I claw at the thin wire digging into my throat. Zyrel’s noose, I realize in an all-consuming horror.
I feel like a worm writhing on hot coals while others watch.
But I don’t care. My mother didn’t fight when they took her, she wanted to spare our family any further disgrace.
But I am not my mother. I will not disappear quietly.
I thrash, kicking wildly. My nails dig into the wire, fingers slipping against the wine and blood. My foot connects with flesh. A sharp curse. But the noose only tightens.
Then, finally, the seven-layered voices of the Sibyls thunder. “Release her!”
I writhe for another moment before air floods my lungs, and I gasp desperately, afraid this breath might be my last. I pull myself up onto my hands and knees, my disheveled, wine-soaked hair hanging over my face, ends splattered against the marble. A red strand falls in front of my eyes, and I blow it away before looking up.
The Red Hunter glares down at me with disdain. His black dragon behind him. He still holds the noose, though the tension has slackened.
“Rise,” the Sibyls command, their voices closer now.
The crowd parts, revealing seven robed figures standing in a semi-circle, the Sphere hovering above them.
Their faces are a canvas of scarred tissue, melted over where theireyes should be. Their ears are like bits of melted clay. Their connection to this world exists only through the will of the gods. They see what the gods show them, hear what the gods allow them to hear, more than any mortal could ever comprehend.
And now, those gods are watching me.
“Rise,” the Sibyls repeat.
I shove the noose from my neck, rubbing the raw skin before pushing to my feet. Then I spit blood at Zyrel’s boots.
Mael pushes through the throng, stopping just behind one of the Sibyls.
“She is not fit to be a champion,” he says, gesturing toward the other champions, barely visible through the murmuring crowd. “She is a simple girl, and a cursed one at that. She brings shame upon the ritual.”
“Raylane Troubelle has pledged herself to Calista, Goddess of Blood and Decay,” seven voices chant in eerie unison. “She is no longer yours to command.”
Mael stares at them. At me. At Zyrel. Then back at me. “These really are dark times,” he sneers, “if we allow a whore to?—”
A sudden downpour of wine covers Mael’s head, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Gasps ripple through the hall as heads tilt upward. Eva stands on the balcony above, an empty pitcher in her hands. She isn’t smiling.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she says, her white teeth flashing against her brown skin. “I aimed for the cursed girl. My aim, alas, was as poor as my judgment. I beg your pardon.”
But there isn’t a shred of apology in her voice, only thinly veiled contempt.
A few snickers break through the stunned silence, but Mael’s expression darkens. Rage smolders behind his eyes, promising retribution in a place where no one will witness it.
My chest tightens in gratitude even as I glower at her for recklessly endangering herself. I pray Archer’s power at court will be enough to protect her.
