Page 96 of The Devil's Canvas

Evander raises a brow, entirely unbothered. “She’s not wrong.”

“You’re lucky,” Theron adds, smirking. “Mine started a fire. Literally.”

Selene rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches. “It was symbolic.”

“Of what? Chaos?” he mutters, with the kind of tone that says he already knows the answer and isn’t impressed.

She shrugs. “Love.”

“Okay,” I say, tipping my head. “But what is this ceremony, exactly?”

Evander’s voice drops low, the humor fading from his face. “It begins with fire. You each walk the Procession—through columns of living flame. Alone.”

“If the fire burns you,” Julian adds, quieter now, “you’re not ready. The flame doesn’t lie.”

“No veils. No softness,” Liora says, her smile all teeth and memory. “You wear black, crimson, obsidian—colors of legacy. Power walks beside you.”

I can’t help it. “Do I get a script for all this, or am I just supposed to vibe with the infernal energy?”

Selene answers, dry as dust. “You’ll feel it. Trust me.”

“And after the fire?”

“The Circle of Witnesses,” she says. “Chosen souls—family, friends, rivals. Anyone with something to lose or protect. They don’t just stand there. They come armed.”

I frown. “Why the weapons?”

“Tradition,” Theron says. “A reminder that nothing sacred stays unchallenged.”

“Lovely,” I mutter. “Please continue.”

“At the center of the circle,” Liora picks up, “you meet at the Binding Flame. A brazier filled with black-gold oil. You offer something of yourself—blood, a weapon, a name you’re willing to lose forever.”

I stare. “A name?”

Selene nods. “Some truths are more binding than blood.”

“After that?” I ask, voice softer now.

“The Vows,” Julian says, his thumb brushing along my hand. “Not vows of love. Of bond. Of choice. Of will.”

“You are not my weakness,” Liora begins, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. “You are my edge.”

“If the world falls, I fall beside you,” Selene says without looking away.

“You are my shield,” Evander murmurs. “I am your blade.”

“I chose this,” Theron finishes. “I choose you still.”

A hush settles—those ancient words humming in the air like magic already begun.

“And when it’s done?” I whisper.

“Your Marks flare again,” Selene says. “They change. A sigil appears—crown, flame, serpent devouring its tail. Whatever the bond has become.”

“Lastly,” Evander says, gaze locking with mine, “you take the Throne of Ash. Side by side. Not as rulers. But as dominions—souls who survived the fire and earned each other in it.”

Julian squeezes my hand under the table, his eyes never leaving my face.

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