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The man on the ground’s rags were grey just a few minutes ago, but you wouldn’t be able to tell now. The weight of Khal’s mace, heavy in his still-small hands, made him stumble as he righted himself from his fighting stance.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you yet, Khal’roth. You have much room for improvement of course, but for your first? Our maiden is surely pleased.”
Amaryn’s voice floated behind him, the click-clack of her heels on old stone echoing as she walked to him from behind. She’d been admiring his work from a distance, critically watching each movement as he made it, listening to each word as it tumbled from his mouth. Tumbled is how she’d describe it, too. He was still clumsy.
“Thank you, Whipmisstress.” She wasn’t clumsy, he thought. She was poise and grace and everything Khal’roth yearned to be, but knew he wasn’t. Amaryn examined the form laying on the ground as a teacher would read over a student's exam. Watching her then, Khal thought a vulture circling its prey might have been a more apt description. A Cintri woman, toned and dressed in the reddest silks and deepest black leathers the shining south had to offer. This Illmatari would have known his mistake the moment he’d seen her round the corner. He’d been played, a boy of no more than thirteen asking for his help on the outskirts of Halruua. An emergency, Khal’roth had said, and the man followed without hesitation. What a fool.
This feeling was one Khal’roth hadn’t a word for, not yet. He felt like his heart was about to burst from his chest, as if its beating itself was echoing off the damp walls of the church’s dungeon. It was so loud, so heavy. Could she hear it too? He squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, trying desperately to steady his still-shaky breaths. The warmth of the blood dousing his arms, his chest, his legs- very little of it his- had him at a loss for words. He dared not turn from his place until dismissed, and his sister seemed content to soak in every moment of this. Or, perhaps, she was more concerned with having him soak in every moment of it.
She wouldn’t speak yet, gently resting her chin upon Khal’roth’s head, arms drooping over his shoulders from behind in a loose hug. Her hand wiped something wet from his cheek on the way down- he hadn’t been sure if it was blood or sweat until a stolen glance showed that same red blossoming from the cuff of her sleeve.
Blossoming. That was the perfect word for it, the way it pooled and spread from the man beneath them. Khal’roth wasn’t even sure what swing had made the killing blow, or where all that blood was coming from, but he knew he was responsible for it. It was his mace that was dripping, adding to the sanguine puddle underfoot. He had led the man here. It was his kill. He was proud.
… Still, he couldn’t stop staring at the human’s aged face. It was contorted, eyebrows furrowed, an expression somewhere between disbelief and fear.
“Don’t feel too bad for him, boy”, his sister broke the silence as she ran bloodied fingers through his long hair. “This is exactly how his kind spend their lives- their death should be no different.”
“Yes, whipmisstress,” his voice cracked. It had been doing that lately. He’d decided he didn’t like it.
“You can drop the formalities. The ritual is over.”
He sighed with relief as he shakily dropped the ball of his mace to rest on the ground. He hadn’t been welding it for long (the man had no chance at winning the fight in the first place), but his shoulders still ached from heaving its weight.
“Do you mean it?” He mumbled through the taste of copper, unsure why the words didn’t want to come out.
“Mean what?”
“That Lady Loviatar must be pleased?”
Amaryn scoffed, roughly ruffling his hair with her hand. “You think I’d speak her name in vain?”
“Of course not, whipmisstress-“
“Then that’s that. You brought him here, you watched, you followed my instruction, you killed in her name. Truescar would be a fool to deny you Taystren the day you come of age.”
He felt a different flutter in his chest this time, buzzing with excitement. Taystren?
“Does it hurt? Your face?”
Khal’roth paused for a moment. His face? Did it hurt? He’d been so focused on the ritual that he hadn’t taken the time to assess himself. Blood hadn’t registered as his blood or the sacrifice’s blood, it was just… blood. Without warning, Amaryn sharply hooked her finger into the corner of his mouth, revealing a gash that split his lip upward. He lurched back at the sudden shot of pain, nearly slipping in the blood underfoot. There it was. She was smiling now, content at his acknowledgment of the pain. Amaryn roughly wiped the blood from his mouth onto his chest.
“The rush will do that to you, dull the pain. Don’t worry though, we will train it out of you. Show you how to keep a level head.”
Khal’roth breathed heavily through the sting now radiating across his cheek. “I did not think he had landed a blow on me. I was so-“ He stopped. Not scared. Do not say you were scared. “-focused, on my work.”
“Don’t sound so sad, this is a good thing. It’s a blessing for a job well done. I’m confident it will scar. Consider it a trophy.” She pinched his cheeks as she continued, blood seeping from his mouth once more unto her hand.“Everytime you look in the mirror, you’ll get to think about your first proper offering to your godess- and your amazing sister who showed you the way. Let’s clean up. Are you hungry? We can get you a treat on the way home.”
He cringed with every squish of his cheek, her hug suffocating. Still, he struggled to quit fixating on the human’s face. His torn-up chest. His bruised stomach, broken fingers… His hands. Hands Amaryn had strung tightly with red twine when she’d first dragged him through the temple gates before beginning the work of carving a prayer across his collarbone. A mockery of his bound-god. The small knife he’d been given to defend himself now sat just out of reach, inches away from his grasp.
“What did you mean by that, earlier? Dying the same way his kind spend their time living?”
Amaryn pressed a quick kiss to the top of Khal’s head. “While taking a blessing for granted.”