“Nothing,” he replied too quickly.
I let out a short, humorless breath. “Do you know how old I am, healer? I’ve seen children lie better than that.”
His jaw flexed as he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I knew her. When we were children. I don’t think she recognizes me,” he admitted, voice low. “Probably for the best.”
I remained silent, waiting.
Santiago sighed through his nose. “I was eleven. She was… maybe ten? Younger than me, but she never acted like it. Never afraid to pick a fight with anyone.” His eyes flicked to mine at that, a veiled challenge, but I only lifted my glass in silent acknowledgment.
“She was a scrap of a thing, but she never stayed down. Always swinging at kids twice her size, mostly because that rich brat Hayat was teaching her how to fight behind everyone’s backs. Thought he was some kind of swordsman. She thought she was, too. That night in the square, though… she didn’t swing. She just held her brother’s hand so tight, I thought she’d snap his fingers clean off, whispering to him like words could stop what was coming.”
I studied him. “And what was coming?”
Santiago’s throat bobbed. He glanced at the decanter, then back to me. “I’m going to need more of that to keep going…”
I humored him, pouring another drink. This time, he took a slower sip before answering.
“They burned them,” he said, voice stripped of any softness. “Her parents. In the town square. They burned them alive—afraid of the power they possessed, afraid of the unknown.” He stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. “Her father looked my father in the eye before the flames took him.”
I knew the story—everyone did—but hearing it from someone who’d watched was different.
My fingers tightened around my own glass. “Your father?”
“Draven Navarro,” Santiago said, his voice hollow. “Councilman. Best friend to her father. And one of the men who sent them to die.”
The room thinned. I let the quiet hold.
“She didn’t cry,” Santiago said finally. “Just… watched.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ve spent years wondering what she was whispering to her little brother that night.”
I swirled my drink, watching the firelight shift through the glass. “And what do you know of her brother?”
Santiago’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. Only that they weren’t allowed to take part in any patron ceremony. The leaders thought if they were unclaimed, unmarked by the goddesses, they’d have no powers. That they’d eventually just… die.”
I frowned. Patron marks were never true immortality—only borrowed longevity, a leash disguised as grace. A fragment of divinity threaded through mortal flesh, slowing decay, blunting age, keeping the body from finishing what time began. It was not life extended, but life suspended—so long as devotion was paid.
The goddess gave breath; the mark decided when it could be taken back.
Once, they’d been blessings—gifts given freely, meant to help mortals live well and long. But after Eryndis was banished, faith curdled into obedience. What had been love became control, and every mark since carried its price. Those marked by flame, tide, or bloom lived longer, healed faster, and fed the goddesses who claimed them. The unmarked were left to fade.
Santiago leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She already bears a mark, though. Her scar—it’s not normal. It runs deeper than any wound should. It wraps around her waist. I don’t know how far it stretches, but I’d wager it reaches her back.”
I kept my expression unreadable but shifted in my stance. “Show me.”
Santiago tensed. “She’s asleep. That’s a violation of her privacy.”
“I didn’t ask for your permission,” I said, my voice absolute.
His jaw tightened, but he obeyed, pushing up from his chairand moving to the bed. Aurelia stirred as he pulled back the blanket, her body limp and heavy with the sedative he had woven into her.
His fingers hovered over the buttons of her linen dress. Behind him, I waited. Slowly, he undid them, careful to keep the fabric draped over her as he exposed the scar.
I stepped closer. The scar ran beneath my fingertips—from her brow, down her full mouth, tracing the base of her neck. My hand drifted lower, following its path over her sternum, down the flat plane of her stomach.
Hunger flared, familiar, unwelcome—a reminder of what my kind was made for. To drink what gods left behind, to drain the light and power from anything still capable of burning.
She was lean, her body honed by survival, yet there was a softness to her—evidence of someone who still chose to live, not merely endure. The scar twisted at her waist, wrapping around her side before vanishing toward her back.
This wound felt like something ancient. Something claimed. And its power—dark, undeniable—called to me like nothing ever had.