The stone floor chilled her bare feet, and she clutched herself close to stay warm. Columns had been carved into the walls. At one end of the temple stood an altar, surrounded by bronze lamps. Cautiously, she approached, then recoiled. A lamb had been sacrificed. Recently. Its body splayed across the altar, steaming, and blood dripped onto the ground.
You see yourself there.
Anne spun around. A woman stood a few feet away. She wore a tunic in the Roman style, with golden brooches pinned at her shoulders, and her dark hair was piled atop her head in elaborate curls. She stepped closer, the torchlight revealing her to be a woman of lustrous, aristocratic beauty, her gaze proud and cunningand urgent.
To what am I being sacrificed? asked Anne.
Him.
Leo?
The Roman woman shook her head. He is but the instrument of your oblation. The blade plunged into your heart.
Instinctively, Annes hand crept between her breasts, shielding herself. I do not understand the purpose of this sacrifice.
He serves another. The Dark One. The temple turned to mist and became an elegant chamber with gilt friezes upon the walls. In the middle of the room stood a stylishly dressed man with white hair and irises as pale as diamonds. The guise of the elegant man melted away like liquefying flesh, revealing a humanlike creature of immense height, its skin the color of ash, curving horns atop its head scraping the mural on the ceiling and its cloven hooves tearing the Kidderminster carpet. The eyes remained the same, pale, cold. Ablaze with power and malevolence.
He has never seen the Dark Ones true face, continued the Roman. A priestess, she must be. A witch. And on the day he does, it will be too late. His doom shall be sealed, and with him, the doom of countless others. The elegant chamber shattered into pieces like broken glass. Anne shielded herself from the shards. When she lifted her arms, she saw the world ablaze. Cities leveled. A never-ending war. Famine and misery. And over all of it, the horned beast watched and applauded.
This scene crumbled away, and Anne and the priestess stood once more within the temple.
My allies are too few, said the Roman. This half-world imprisons me, and only two willing fighters exist in your realm. Not enough. We need others to wage war. The priestess turned her gaze to Anne. Powerful warriors.
Anne held up her hands, palms up. I have nothing. No power of my own, and am certainly no warrior.
The Romans eyes glittered as she advanced. Strength lies within you. As for the rest, I shall bring it forth.
Anne backed up, until she felt slickness under her feet. Blood from the sacrifice. No.
Think you there is a choice? The priestess looked scornful. Death is your only other option.
I want out of this place. I want to go home. Anne sounded small and terrified, precisely how she felt.
We have not the time for this, snapped the woman. My hold here weakens. As she spoke, the edges of the temple blurred and grew
hazy. There is no safety at home. You sense this, and my warning presence. That place is a haven for wickedness.
Not Leo.
The Romans mouth twisted into a cruel smile. He is most wicked of all. The Devils operative who makes the world ready for his master.
Not the same man who held her, who gave her so much, who believed in her strength even when Anne had been uncertain it existed at all. I dont believe you.
The priestess made a sound of irritation as more of the temple turned to smoke. Time draws apace.
She raised her hands and chanted. Anne did not understand the words, though some sounded vaguely familiar. Tempestas, ventus, maleficus. The air grew colder. A wind began to gust. It swirled, its movement marked by eddies of dust. Torches flickered. Faster and fiercer blew the wind, cold and lacerating, until it howled like the gates of Hell being opened.
Anne staggered, fighting to keep standing, yet the wind had the force of a storm, pushing her back.
The wind screamed, and the priestesss voice raised to a shriek, her words barely audible above the tumult. She curled her hands into fists, and the wind spun around her, gathering, collecting. Building momentum. Her hair came loose from its elaborate arrangement, her tunic billowed, and her eyes blazed as she chanted.
Then she opened her hands and shoved the wind toward Anne.
Certain she would be torn apart by the vicious storm, Anne darted to the side. But too late. The wind slammed into her. She stumbled against the altar and fell to her knees. The pain of impact was nothing compared to the sensation of bitter, cutting wind reaching into her, filling her veins, pushing through her.
She screamed. The torches guttered and went out, sinking the room in darkness.
Anne?
She jolted, then felt Leos large, warm hand on her thigh. There was a hiss of a tinder being struck, then the flare of lit candle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, she discovered herself sitting upright in bed. Leo stared up at her, concern furrowing his brow.