Page 82 of The Divine Shallows
Lyra shook her head. “How can I believe that the Goddess will choose me in the years to come, Elowyn? Seven years will pass, time and time again, and I will be coveting a fate that was never mine to have. Tonight, at the Temple, Caena will select the seven kin of Neramyr’s monarchs for her Trial. The truth is that those destined for divinity are kings and queens, princes and princesses, and the few chosen children of the moon.” Lyra let out an unsteady breath. “This I know to the very marrow of my bones, I am not among one of them—I am not one of you.”
Elowyn’s emotions stirred from Lyra’s outspokenness. Despite her own doubts and insecurities, she understood the undeniable reality of her lineage. As the daughter of a king and as a descendant of one of the founders of Neramyr, her candidacy was unquestioned. Elowyn knew, without a doubt, that she would ascend as a divine sorceress and eventually rule Eriden as its next queen.
Only seven divine warlocks and sorceresses were chosen every seventh year. Lyra, despite being the daughter of a noble, was just that and nothing more. The improbability of Sylas being chosen as a divine candidate from among the thousands of warlocks in the Iron Hollows was already staggering. If Lyra’s judgement of herself held true, the likelihood of her becoming a divine sorceress was slim to none.
“I suppose greatness wasn’t written in the stars for me. Unlike you, or Theo, or even Sylas,” Lyra admitted. “No matter how hard I try to push it aside, everything I’ve known is about to change. Sylas will return home after seven years as a divine warlock, and knowing him, he’ll have embarked on some noble quest for the good of Neramyr,” she mused with a soft chuckle. “And tonight, you’ll be named the Fangwright candidate. Soon, you’ll be whisked away to train at the Seven Spires alongside Theo. It seems like everyone I hold dear is destined for so much more,” she sighed, furrowing her brow. “As for me? I have nothing to offer but a pretty face.”
Her next words were sorrowful. “There’s a separation between the divine and the native fey. The intricate marks that decorate your skin set you apart in immeasurable ways, by nature—like calls to like—and I am certainly not like you.” Lyra smiled sadly. “It may not be fitting to ask this of a princess, but there is no such thing as pride in friendship. Promise me this, when greatness claims you—I beg of you not to forget about me.”
Elowynreached for her friend’s hands. It dawned on her then, the depth of Lyra’s wounds. It all made sense now—the profound sadness stemming from her friend’s aura when they first met. Lyra had mentioned how she dreamed of what life would be like if she had been born a princess of Neramyr, of what she may not have lost.
Elowyn was keenly aware of the stark division between the divine fey, the native fey, and those without magic at all. It was this division that prompted Draeden to take such precautions during her visit to Orwyn—covering her moon-inked palms with gloves, draping her in a cloak, and guiding her through hidden alleyways. As Lyra had expressed, Elowyn’s markings set her apart from the masses, and nearly everyone Elowyn knew was considered one of the privileged.
Being divine meant Elowyn was seen differently, spoken to differently, and treated differently.
Despite the divide that separated them, Elowyn gathered her friend in a tight embrace. “I promise,” she vowed softly.
The Temple’sfoyer greeted Elowyn and Lyra with its familiar polished stone. With a sense of urgency, Elowyn guided them towards the Heart of the Temple, their footsteps echoing against the elaborate marble entryway. Each time she passed through the enchanted archway, Elowyn couldn’t help but marvel at its rich history. Etched into the ancient marble trim were the names of Neramyr’s original fey rulers. Beyond the threshold lay the sacred entrance to the Heart of the Temple, veiled by a protective ward that resembled a slice of midnight sky. This illusion was a vista of dusky azure, adorned with countless twinkling stars, an enchanted homage to the most sacred place in Neramyr.
Beside her, Lyra stepped forward, her fingers delicately tracing the carved marble surface until they reached the name of the first Iron Queen, Isadora Bloodweaver. With a reverent whisper, Lyrainvoked the name of her kingdom’s founder, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Pressing her thumb to her lips, she gently bit down, drawing forth a bead of crimson. With devotion, Lyra offered her blood to Isadora’s name, watching as the drop glowed before disappearing into the stone, accepting her tribute. With a graceful sweep of her dress, Lyra passed through the midnight sky mirage, crossing the threshold into the Heart of the Temple.
Following in her footsteps, Elowyn repeated the sacred ritual, offering her own drop of blood in homage to her kingdom’s founder and the countless fey who had come before. Her offering was accepted by the ancient ward, and Elowyn stepped through the gateway, feeling the gentle caress of a starlit breeze against her skin as the Heart of the Temple unfolded.
Stepping into the sacred expanse, Elowyn found the lofty chamber teeming with hundreds of attendees, the crowd swelling with each passing moment. Yet amidst the throng of fey, her gaze was drawn precisely to the one figure she had searched for since the previous day. Even with Elyria’s back turned, her silhouette was unmistakable to Elowyn. Seeing her older sister, Elowyn couldn’t help but release a sigh, the tension that had gripped her for hours finally easing, though the ache in her heart persisted.
Elyria stood in silence near the Divine Shallows, a statue of composure before the stone sigil of House Fangwright submerged beneath the sacred waters. Clad in a tunic as dark as midnight, a stark contrast to her snow-white hair bound in a tightly woven braid, Elyria radiated a commanding aura. Despite her outward calm, Elowyn could sense that her sister’s true emotions were shielded behind a shroud of rehearsed control. Elyria refused to be preyed upon, neither her aura nor her mind.
Intently, Elowyn gathered the folds of her ruby gown and navigated through the crowd, her path leading her closer to her sister.
As she pushed through the thickening mass of bodies, Elowyn’sfrustration mounted, and she soon realized the reason for the congestion. A path was being cleared through the crowd for the High Priestess, who was making her way toward the Divine Shallows.The ritual is beginning already?Elowyn redoubled her efforts, forcing her way through the throng, drawing irritated glances that tempered upon noticing her goldenaureum. Though still some distance from her sister, Elowyn watched as the High Priestess, draped in long robes of alabaster, glided toward the shallows with each graceful step.
Elowyn let out a frustrated groan as she maneuvered through the crowd, desperately seeking a path that would lead her to Elyria before the ritual commenced. Even if it meant just a few fleeting moments together, she had to make the attempt. There were still so many things she wanted to say.
With the High Priestess nearing the Divine Shallows, time was running out.
Standing on her tiptoes, Elowyn stretched toward her older sister, her voice rising above the chatter of the crowd as she called out, “Elyria!” and waved her hand frantically. Determined to reach her, Elowyn pushed forward, finally emerging at the front of the crowd, only a few feet behind her sister.
“Elyria,” Elowyn uttered once more, her voice filled with urgency. Though she saw a flicker of recognition in her sister’s aura at the sound, it vanished beneath her shield of composure. Elowyn knew then that Elyria had heard her, but her sister remained unwaveringly turned away.
Now it was too late.
The High Priestess had reached the celestial shallows, raising the hem of her robe as she prepared to step into the waters. With each stride, the silken fabric billowed behind her until she stood at the center of the Divine Shallows, atop the large tile sphere bearing the image of a crescent moon.
Anger surged within Elowyn as she stared at her sister’s back.Why won’t you speak to me? This is our last chance to speak to each other for thenext seven years, and you can’t even acknowledge me?Elowyn hurled her thoughts toward her sister through her magic, hoping they would breach Elyria’s defenses. Yet, she knew deep down that her words would never reach their mark, as Elyria’s mind remained sealed behind an impenetrable barrier.
In the presence of the High Priestess, the Heart of the Temple fell into a hushed stillness. With upturned palms, she addressed the gathered crowd, her voice carrying with authority, “Welcome to the Heart of the Temple. Tonight, we are gathered here to witness the Crossing of Kin. On this auspicious day, the Goddess will reveal which one of her children shall tread the Bridge Between Worlds first and embark upon her divine Trial.”
An intense excitement charged the atmosphere within the Temple, anticipation buzzing among the fey. In fact, the Seventh Day stood as one of Neramyr’s most momentous occasions, with each iteration being retold over generations of fey. To witness the emergence of the greatest warlocks and sorceresses within the feylands held great significance. These divine fey would assume roles as guardians and protectors of Neramyr, upholding the order of the New Age. Even long after their passing, those bearing the final Mark would be celebrated through lore and legend.
Once more, the voice of the High Priestess echoed through the chamber. “Rulers of Neramyr, approach your House sigil.”
At her directive, the fourteen monarchs of the seven realms advanced toward the Divine Shallows, halting before their respective symbols. With a tilt of her head, the High Priestess closed her eyes, her irises now veiled with a translucent sheen upon reopening. An ethereal magic suffused the Temple as the sacred markings along her arms began to glow faintly, depicting the eight phases of the moon. The tranquil waters at her feet responded to her divine power, transforming into rhythmic ripples.
Then came the declaration from the High Priestess, “Let us begin.”
In unison, the fourteen rulers of the seven realms stepped closer to the edges of the Divine Shallows, their upturned palms mirroring each other’s as they encircled the celestial waters. Together, they invoked their divine magic, drawing upon the ancient power bestowed by their Goddess. The moon-inked markings on their bodies began to glow, each pattern unique, from dragon scales to whorls of waves and thunder. As the magical moonlight flowed through their varied markings, a mystical veil enveloped their fourteen silhouettes.
In tandem, the monarchs of Neramyr and the High Priestess directed their divine energy into the waters. Elowyn understood the significance of this moment—such potency of divine magic at once occurred only twice every seven years. Once, on the First Day, to open the gates to Caena’s realm for the returning children of the moon, and now, on the Seventh Day, to usher in the next cohort of divine candidates through the Bridge Between Worlds. The amount of divine energy pulsating within the Temple was extraordinary, yet it paled in comparison to the boundless power of the Moon Goddess possessed.
