Page 169 of The Orc's Captive Bride
She poured it carefully into the bowl, watching the thick golden liquid pool at the bottom. Then water from the pitcher, clear and pure, diluting the honey into something translucent. Mixing earth and sky. Sweetness and clarity. Life and purity.
She stirred with her finger clockwise in three complete circles. The liquid shimmered as it caught the faint pre-dawn light. Beautiful. Whatever happens next, this moment was beautiful.
She withdrew the small knife she’d tucked into her dress, another gift from Jaella.
Blood for blood. Life for life. A willing sacrifice.
The blade was sharp and well-maintained. It barely hurt as she drew it across her palm. Blood welled, dark and red, unmistakably human.
She held her hand over the bowl and let three drops fall into the mixture. One for the past. One for the present. One for the future.
The blood dispersed, swirling through honey and water like crimson clouds. The mixture began to glow, faint but unmistakable. A chemical reaction? Or magic?
She knew the answer. Had always known.
Magic.
Terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.
She set the bowl down and pressed her bleeding palm against her dress. Now the words. The invocation. The formal request for balance to be restored. She’d memorized the Old Language carefully, practicing her pronunciation until her tongue ached, but actually speaking the words felt different, heavier, as if each syllable carried physical weight.
She drew a breath and looked to the east. The faintest sliver of golden light touched the horizon. Sunrise. Perfect timing. As if the universe itself is conspiring to help.
“Aeloria ven su’thera,” she began, her voice steady despite her fear. “Baelis nor fey’shana. Cor’thalis ven ma’renta.”
Old Gods, hear my plea. The balance has been broken. I offer restitution.
The words felt alive in her mouth, vibrating with power as the mist swirled faster, tightening around the circle.
“Su’mora eth kar’thenai. No’valis ven theraya. Cor’shanis ma ethera.”
What was taken must be returned. What was stolen must be cleansed. I offer myself freely.
The first ray of sunlight touched her face.
Warm. Golden. Beautiful.
For a heartbeat, she felt totally at peace. This is right. This is what I’m meant to do.
But then the sunlight disappeared, swallowed by mist, thick and impenetrable. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Something’s happening. The ritual is working. Or failing spectacularly.
The air grew heavy, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. She waited, trembling and terrified for what felt like an eternity.
“Well done, child.”
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, feminine and ancient, layered with a power that made Thea’s bones ache.
Freya. The Mother of All. The goddess who held the threads of fate. Thea had read about her and studied the mythology, but reading and experiencing were vastly different things.
“I… thank you?” Her voice cracked.
Warm laughter rippled through the mist.
“So polite. So uncertain. Yet here you stand. Speaking words of power. Offering sacrifice.”
“I’m just trying to fix what’s broken.”
