Page 79 of The Blood Rites

Overseers begin to appear, phasing through the ground around the plateau in a ring. Their faceless heads tilt in unison as a low chant fills the air.

Until the count is true.

I look to Marissa, and then to Lyssandra, before glancing over at the other Waterborn who have yet to stir. I can’t tell if they are indifferent or just so deep in prayer that they are oblivious to their surroundings.

Above us, the figure on the Mother Shard has transformed into a perfect, burning number two.

I expect Lyssandra to say a prayer. Instead, her eyes snap to mine.

“I—we, do not wish to be saved,” she says, voice flat.

She stands, unfurling from her position of prayer in one smooth movement. “You are not performing any kind of heroic service here, Luceris.”

Her hair has come loose in the wind, hanging almost to her waist. "It is an honour to die for the Crown."

The words leave her mouth without hesitation, without doubt. "As it was for my mother. And hers before that."

“I—” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, the words dying in my throat.

"What about them?" I point at the others. "Did they choose this too?"

Lyssandra’s mouth twists. “Who are you to speak of our faith? Of our duty?”

She studies me for a long moment. “You do not know our ways. You have not lived them.”

A drop of blood falls from my fingertips and strikes the stone between us.

Lyssandra's eyes follow it. "The Tourmaline Vein survives because we do not.”

"No," I say. "I can’t accept that."

A faint smile touches her lips. "You must."

“I can’t stand here and watch you die,” I manage, my voice tight. “The next wave will come soon; we have to move.”

“Your words are admirable, Luceris, but they fall on deaf ears.”

Her smile fades. "You believe survival is mercy."

Her eyes never leave mine. "I do not."

She glances at Marissa, who visibly shrinks beneath her gaze. “I am the Willing Water, and I accept my death.”

Lyssandra sinks back down to her knees. "There is peace in that," she says, closing her eyes and clasping her hands in prayer once more.

"Do not take it from us."

“There must be another way,” I plead.

Lyssandra and Theon begin to chant, as though the conversation is already over. As though I was never part of it.

Marissa starts shaking beside me. “What do we do now?” she whimpers.

Before I can answer, the air turns cold.

I turn, and there he is—Kael, flanked by Nyxen and Vaelis.

He stands at the edge of the plateau, his uniform slightly torn around the collar, revealing more tattoos swirling across his chest. Beyond that, his clothing is immaculate. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his eyes rimmed with the faint purple of exhaustion and something sharper, something hungrier.