Page 284 of The Edge of Darkness

The drums surrounded us, and the Dionachs in the crowd began to sway to the beat.

Niall hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me into his side. “Do not be alarmed by what you see,” he murmured in my ear. “This has been a long-neglected practice, but it’s an ancient tradition.”

I eyed the white-clothed male. “Do you mean to say that Vahrenhall used to make sacrifices?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Nivelle had informed me that the witches and Dionachs still participated in this ritual on a regular basis. But to think that this was once a tradition adopted by a fae territory . . .

A reemergence of things of old, Niall’s voice caressed my mind.

Signs and indications, I thought back.

He squeezed my waist.

Breck had been right in what he’d told me about the prophecy and the things that would lead up to its fulfillment. I pinpointed his face in the crowd nearby. He was just as transfixed by the ceremony as everyone else.

Nivelle’s voice commanded the attention of the forest as she spoke over the steady beat of the drums. “Death is but a gateway, a freeing of the soul. From the gods we take our breath, and to them we shall go.”

She moved aside, allowing the fae male to approach the altar. His steps were sure. His face did not falter. He looked at peace, ready to embrace death. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the altar and laid his back against the stone.

Remic stepped up to his side, blade in hand. He pressed it to the male’s exposed neck and asked, “Are you ready?”

“I am ready to meet the gods,” the male responded, loud enough for all to hear. “And with my blood, may they grant us their favor in battle.”

Nivelle tilted her head up to the sky and whispered words that only she could hear. When she lowered it again, her eyes and facial markings were glowing blue. She placed her palm upon the male’s forehead while the other two Dionachs laid firm hands on his feet and shoulders. “Bleed for the gods,” she commanded. Her voice sounded other-worldly, like it was Torin speaking through her in that moment.

Remic’s gaze narrowed. His muscles flexed as he applied pressure and drug the blade across the male’s neck. The movement was slow, smooth, and deep. Red coated the silver, flooded the white, drenched the black. The male’s body shook, protesting the blood-letting, but steady hands held him against the altar. The moon, high above, reflected in his wide eyes while he lay choking on death, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Could he see the gods? Was he in their presence?

Or were the tears from the pain?

No one would ever know.

The Dionachs eased their hold as the male’s chest fell still, eyes forever fixated on whatever image his mind had conjured up before he took his last breath.

Nivelle held the bowl in place to collect the blood that spilled freely over the edge of the stone, and when it was filled to the brim, she lifted it to the heavens.

The drums pounded. Their cadence vibrated my chest like a second heartbeat—hard and fast. All the Dionachs were swaying now—even the ones who held the torches. The undulating flames sent the forest’s shadows into motion.

Remic took the bowl with both his hands while Nivelle tilted her head toward the sky once more. Then, he tipped the bowl, pouring its contents over her shoulders until her robes ran red.

I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open at the sight.

Nivelle was invigorated by it. Her eyes fluttered, blue light pulsing beneath her lashes. She reached up and ran her fingers along the rim of the bowl, wetting them, then flicking the fluid across Remic’s face and chest. A blessing by sacrificial blood. When she looked up at him, I could have sworn it was Torin looking through her eyes.

“The noble warrior,” she said in that strange voice. Her hand cupped his cheek, lingering as she assessed him a moment longer.

Remic’s eyes widened, seeming to search for meaning in those words . . . and finding it. His expression shifted, solidifying with something akin to determination.

The drums lowered their rhythm as Nivelle lifted her hands again. She spoke a string of foreign words—an incantation, almost like a song—and then, she cried out. It was a strange and otherworldly sound, a mix between a yell and a brash, yet harmonic note. She held the yell for a long moment, then her voice broke into a higher pitch that echoed through the mountains.

Something warm and wet hit my forehead, startling me. I touched my finger to it, drawing it away to find . . . red.

I turned toward Niall just as a drop fell upon his brow.

All around us, the pelting sound of rain filled the space. But it was not normal rain that fell. It was blood, falling from a cloudless sky.