History told the tale.
Inside the Chamber of Whispers, however, her gift meant something more. Something better. Something pure and full of hope, so Cosmina lifted her voice high, singing the incantation with timeless rhythm. But as the song crested and the spell formed, the air grew thin, warping against the vaulted ceiling. The ancient symbols carved into the megalith’s faces started to glow. Bright light exploded above the dais, then rushed toward the floor in a cascade of illumination. Magic engulfed Cosmina in a sickening wave, making her stomach churn as sensation crawled over her skin.
Panic sent her sideways. She must get off the dais. Needed to stop singing before—
Powerful magic bore down—pinning her knees to stone, holding her immobile, forcing the spell from her throat. She fought the mental slide. The pressure increased, tightening its grip inside her mind. Oh gods . . . nay. Not now. Her gift needed to stay locked away. The instant she allowed her Seer’s eye to open—and the magic to merge with her own—it would be over. Overload would suck her into a vortex of pain. But even as Cosmina struggled to keep her gift contained, she knew her loss of control was what the spell wanted . . . was what it needed to complete itself.
She cried out in dismay. The goddess expected too much. Giving in would cost her too much. Cosmina understood her power all too well. If she gave it free reign, the magic would steal her sight. It had happened once before, leaving her blind and helpless for days. Resistance, however, didn’t help. Despite her best effort, the cosmic pressure continued to build and the terrible cascade began.
Sharp and insistent, the beast banged on her mental gates.
Cosmina clenched her teeth and pushed back. Another round of denial spilled through her. Magic snarled and, raising a powerful fist, broke through the barricades she defended. Multiple visions streamed into her head. The steady rush of imagery stretched her mind, pulling at psychological seams.
The song died in her throat.
Henrik cursed from somewhere nearby.
The spell chased its tail inside her head. Burning bright, magical mist rose, shrieking as it revolved in a ring around her. Imprisoned by the ethereal glow, Cosmina’s lungs closed. Unable to breath, she watched the strange smoke separate into seven rings. The bands thinned into discs, each spinning just inches above the next—smooth as glass, edges sharp as steel, an impenetrable cage fueled by her life force.
And so it began . . .
The magic was siphoning her strength, slowing her heartbeat, taking her life one breath at a time. Overload blurred her vision. Tears pooled in her eyes and the glow pulsed—once, twice, a third time—showing no mercy, stealing her power as it sent the goddess’ message out in a blinding burst of light.
The explosion rocked the chamber.
The megaliths swayed. Stone dust flew into the air as pain ripped through her.
Recall the Blessed to White Temple. The future rests with you.
Aye . . . there it was. Words to live and die by, ones Cosmina now understood. But it was too late. Too late to stop the goddess’ signal from being sent. Too late to protect those trapped inside the Chamber of Whispers with her. Too late to prevent the cosmic slide into physical blindness as sorcery tightened its grip and death reached out to touch her.
CHAPTER SIX
Each pulse a rhythmic chant, magic throbbed through the chamber. Henrik recoiled, fighting the onslaught. Almost impossible to do. The cold ate at him and frost slithered over stone, coating the walls and megaliths, forcing its way down his throat, stealing his ability to breathe. The temperature dropped another notch, dipping into bitterness. His throat closed, and he coughed as pressure banded around his rib cage. Christ. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t force himself to move, never mind think straight.
Henrik sucked in a desperate breath. And then another.
The influx of air didn’t help. He was in trouble. Serious goddamned trouble in a place he’d never wanted to return . . . the Chamber of Whispers. But it was too late. He hadn’t remembered in time. Now he was trapped inside the sacred chamber with one of the Blessed—lost to memory and the brutal lash of childhood abuse. Like ghouls from the pit of hell, the past rose to taunt him. Cruel images and savage experience collided, forcing him to remember. God, he despised those rings. Didn’t want to be anywhere near the pulsing glow. The awful light leached into everything—the walls, the megaliths, his bloodstream—making him burn from the inside out.
Bile splashed up his throat, bleeding onto the back of his tongue. Boots rooted to the floor, gaze fixed on Cosmina, Henrik swallowed hard. Nay. Not this time. He wouldn’t allow himself to throw up. He’d come too far to be dragged back into the past. Wasn’t seven years old anymore, but . . . Christ help him. He was losing it, allowing the magic to elevate his pulse and destroy his control.
Henrik snarled. The sound did nothing to steady him.
Horror locked him down instead, feeding him a steady stream of memories. The need to vomit grabbed him by the balls. Henrik shook his head. So much for being stronger. Wiser too. Age didn’t matter. Neither did experience or the passing of years, ’cause—Jesus—he’d always thrown up, emptying his belly on the mosaic tiles. Had never been able to handle watching Ylenia—his mother, former High Priestess of Orm—perform the sacred rite. Or abide her voice while she worked the spell and—
The recollection made him gag.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. With a vicious swipe, Henrik wiped the droplets away and, chest pumping, took a step back. He needed to get out. Out of the chamber. Out of his own head. Away from the circle of stones and Cosmina. But even as his feet moved, his mind remained stuck in the past. Goddamn recall. ’Twas a bitch of a thing, resurrecting his pain, forcing him to remember what he worked every day to forget. All the beatings. The anger in Ylenia’s eyes. The harshness of her tone. The revulsion on her face every time she looked at him. Born in a place that honored women and abhorred men. Unwanted by the Order of Orm. Unloved by his own mother.
Twisted in so many ways.
The unfairness of it sickened him. Cosmina’s song did the rest, making his skin crawl and his heart shrivel. Not enough air. There wasn’t enough air in the room. Struggling for breath, he took another step backward. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Henrik followed the trickle down his spine, distracting himself while he continued to retreat. Boot soles brushing over the marble floor, he widened the distance until . . . the swords on his back bumped the megalith behind him. Arse pressed against the solid upright, he doubled over. Both palms planted on his knees, he hung his head, tried to catch his breath and hang on, but . . .
Cosmina’s voice rose in a melodic wave. So pure. So beautiful. A total goddamned tragedy. She sang like an angel, each note perfection as she performed the ancient rite.
His stomach clenched again.
Sweet Christ, he wasn’t going to make it. Was about to—
A tremor rumbled through the chamber, cutting Cosmina’s song short.
“Jesu,” Shay said from somewhere to his right. “H, grab her. She’s—”
“Merde!” Andrei shifted behind the megalith holding Henrik upright. “Move it, Henrik. Get out of—”
Boom. Boom . . . crack!
A sonic blast exploded from around the dais. The violent wind gust hammered him. Henrik cursed as his feet left the floor. His head whiplashed. The magic-driven burst spun him around, then let go, hurling him across the chamber. Wind whistled in his ears. His vision blurred. He heard his comrades shout in alarm. Stone columns whirled past, speeding into streaks. He stopped going up and started to come down. Henrik sighted the ground and—