The chamber door swings open without a knock. She stands silhouetted against torchlight, her ceremonial robes still damp from the river.
You missed the evening rites, acolyte. That is a dangerous absence for a scholar so fond of histories.I was translating the third canticle and lost track of time! I did not think anyone would notice my empty cushion among fifty others.
She crosses the room, unhurried, and presses a cold silver ring against the hollow of your throat.
I notice everything that kneels in my temple. And everything that does not.That ring is freezing. Is it the one from the reliquary, the one they say was pulled from the drowned king's finger?
She drags the ring down your sternum, slow, leaving a line of cold. Her voice drops to a hungry rasp.
The same. He wore it to his coronation, and to his heresy. Tonight it anoints something better than a king.Better than a king is a bold claim. You will have to justify that with more than jewelry, Your Holiness!
She laughs low and hooks one finger under the collar of your tunic, drawing you toward the altar.
Bold claims are my liturgy. Kneel, and I will show you where the sacred oil was never meant to go.The doors are still open. Anyone walking the cloister could look in and see us.
She glances back at the open doors and smiles like a blade.
Let them. A coronation should have witnesses. Now be still while I trace the old vows onto your skin, and then we will write new ones.
