Sevensworn

IV. Blood Prophecy

When Ronan woke, it was to raised voices and a relentless pounding behind his eyes. He was in the center of a small room, in a bed heaped with furs that smelled of dust and smoke, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had no idea how he'd gotten there. He pushed back the furs, surprised at the ache in his bones and the tightness of his skin, and put his bare feet against the floor.

The voices outside the door only heightened.

He walked forward gingerly, taking painstaking care to navigate through his shifting vision. Something was wrong, that much he knew, but at the very least he could take comfort in the fact that they hadn't been attacked⁠—he figured that he wouldn't have been allowed to sleep if they had.

His fingers shook as he reached for the door handle, and he looked at them with dismay. A flash of hazy memory surfaced with a flare of pain in his head, memory of a realm of nothing and a chapel full of towering gods. He pushed the memories away and opened the door.

The shouting ceased. There were three sets of eyes on him instead of the two he'd been expecting. Acaeus', wide and slightly manic, Wynne's, narrowed and suspicious, and one more, one black and glassy and defensive. Shivaroth's.

"Ronan," he breathed as their eyes met. "You are⁠—" Shivaroth moved to step forward, a hint of a smile on his lips, but Acaeus darted between them, Stormbreaker drawn, its tip steady and leveled at Shivaroth's throat.

"Easy," Acaeus warned with a glare. "Easy."

Ronan stared at Shivaroth from behind Acaeus' armored shoulder. Shivaroth stared back, his hands raised in surrender, blue skin ashen and pale.

"Don't get any closer than that." Acaeus sheathed his sword, looking closely at both of them before stepping to the side.

Ronan glanced at the semi-circle around him, entirely uncertain of the extent of the hostility in the room. Shivaroth's presence was somehow unsurprising, even while anything that could have explained it was lost in the odd haze that had settled over his mind.

"If we're done with the threats of violence," Wynne said slowly, "I suggest we catch Ronan up to speed."

Shivaroth began to pace, and fleeting bits of memory began to resurface in Ronan's memory. Panic, peace, arms around him as his back rested against stone. Still not enough to go on, not enough to piece together any narrative. Acaeus spoke before he could spend more time pondering.

"Shivaroth is mortal, Ronan had some kind of nightmare, and there have been Rhydellan hunting horns sounding for the last half hour. We still need to leave by morning but have nowhere to go, and we will begin to run low on rations if we aren't able to get out of the mountains soon. Any questions?"

"Mortal?" Ronan whispered the word as if it were something evil. He looked Shivaroth up and down, from his bare feet to his blank eyes. He took a deep breath.

"That may not be the right word for it," Shivaroth murmured. "I have been cut off from my power in Feihjelm and bound to Ishtel, but I have yet to discover the extent of my apparent mortality." He spoke with such an intense reverence that Ronan found himself unable to speak more than a word.

"How?"

"I don't know," Shivaroth murmured. "Only five people alive know how to bring a god to Ishtel against their will. Me, Calyseus, a young girl who lives in the slums of the Rhydellan capital city, and⁠—" Shivaroth's eyes narrowed. "And Aevar."

"So, what, you think he wanted to even the playing field?" Ronan eased himself into a chair, exhaling slowly to avoid a wince. "That would certainly fit his track record."