Page 135 of A Thread of Breath and Bone

The being reaches into the air and pulls a staff with a glowing orb on top of it from somewhere. I’m still unnerved, on edge, when it says, “I am Mythkyel, emissary to the Primordial gods.”

Raea draws in a sharp breath as I squeeze her hand.

“This hall is sacred for all beings created. They can be made and unmade.” It pauses, then adds, “We have been watching since the time of your births, unable to intervene until now. What is your right shall be restored, but first⁠—”

Mythkyel is less a being and more a localized storm of light—a wispy form of cloud and energy that pulses with terrifying indifference. The air in the hall grows cold enough to crack bone. This is the emissary of those who designed our souls, and as it looks down at us, I realize we aren't here to be healed—we are here to be remade into something lethal.

It gestures to the bowls in front of us, which gleam gold beneath the torchlight. At the bottom is what appears to be water, so still, so clear.

“Place your hands in the bowl, and do not,” it hisses, “remove your hands. Doing so will unbind the process. The string of life that tethers you to your birthright will unravel—and you will be lost.”

Raea looks to me, and I nod, wishing I could go first to test it out.

“Together?” she asks, her voice shaky and low as she forces a small smile. I know she’s terrified, but she’s facing her fears head-on. It's one of the many things I love about her. She doesn’t turn from the hard things. She doesn't run. She faces them.

I nod and together sink our hands into our respective bowls. She cries out first. My jaw locks as fire rips through my veins. Fuck. This isn’t water. It burns like it’s peeling the flesh from my bones. When I look down, it only looks like I’ve submerged my hand, but the pain…it radiates up my arms into my shoulders, like acid in my blood.

Raea cries, and despite the feeling of burning alive, I call for her. “Soraea,” I grit out. “Look…at me. Look at me, Princess.”

Tears are streaming down her face as she looks up. Pure agony contorts her features. “It hurts,” she sobs.

I nod, unwilling to look away. “I know, love. You can do this. We can do this.” My chest tightens as the feeling of fire ignites behind my breastbone, and my hands tremble. Everything in me says to remove my hands, to take Raea and run, but I won’t.

I can’t.

Raea trembles, the bowl shaking from how hard she’s fighting. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. If she passes out, her hands will slip free.

“Look at me, love,” I command. “Look at my face.”

She blinks, barely there.

“Stay…awake,” I pant.

The being has been quiet, watchful of our agony, but then it says, “The old has burned the path for the new.” The words echo through the hall like a decree. With a clap, the pain ends like it never even existed. Raea and I look down at her hands, both of them still in the water, except there’s no more pain. It’s now a cool basin of water. When I look up, the being is watching me.

“Once made, you can never be unmade. Do you, Anders Rykerson, son of Aki Rykerson, line of the Stormborne Fae, heir, and mate to Soraea Tierson, understand and agree to forfeit the body with which you were born?”

When I look at Raea, her lip wobbles, but she manages to nod.

“I understand.”

The being, still eerily floating, asks the same to Soraea. “Do you, Soraea Tierson, Daughter of Amaya Gavandrial-Tierson, first of the Starborn Elven line, heir, Lumisthariel, and mate to Anders Rykerson, understand and agree to forfeit the body with which you were born?”

Raea nods. Her white strands have come loose from her braids, falling into her face.

“Then remove your hands and bleed.”

A dagger appears between us, the hilt ornate and sturdy. It’s a black obsidian, sharp and honed like it’s never been dull for a moment. I lift the dagger between us and, with my free hand, take Raea’s in mine.

I grab her attention, her green eyes glittering in the light. The pools of green so deep I’d happily drown in them.

“Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

She nods as I slice her palm open, the crimson pooling until it drips off either side. With her eyes still on me, I move her hand over the bowl and let her blood mix with the water. I let go and cut my left hand open, doing the same. Drops of red splash into the bowl, spreading out and mixing.

“It is done,” the being says.

When I glance up, it has returned to its original state. I blink—and the water ignites, flames roaring up from the bowls in a blinding burst of light. I barely have time to look at Raea before my vision goes dark and I fall into a blanket of stars.