“Now Amalia, I know that Marcus is not the ideal husband, but he is a part of our society.”
It was funny what the mind considered in times of crisis. Lady Amalia Caporetti, an English noble with a family history in Italy from generations ago. As she found herself chained up in the middle of a room, her mind drifted to her last conversation with her father.
Now Marcus was dead.
Now her father was dead.
She had been taken from her home in her sleep, all of her servants executed, and her future denied.
Amalia’s body bore cuts that she recognized as ritual markings put on a sacrifice. She had studied these things, and she even understood the Latin that was being spoken around her. ‘They still think I’m unconscious.’ She kept her eyes shut, but she could feel the outline of the markings. ‘That, or they think I’m stupid.’ Possible. Her gender was often underestimated so far as classical training went.
Pity them.
She took in a deep breath as she felt the chains pull, and she was hoisted up by her wrists. It was painful. The blood fell down to pool below her, and she let her eyes open just a little to get a gist of the surroundings.
Circular room. Bowled, like a stadium, but all inside. Torches. Several people in robes. Her feet were still unbound. ‘Good.’ Her toe could scrape the ground.
She let her toe dip into the blood that was pooling, and carefully, subtly, she began to use her own blood to start drawing a different glyph beneath herself. As she did this, she whispered in Latin an incantation she wasn’t meant to know—but of course, she did. Her father had let her learn many things involved in their line of duty, and that meant to know what their enemies in the occult might do.
There was no tool more powerful for magic than one’s own blood.
As such, her spell countered theirs, as she timed it right. Their spell to rip her soul from her body was canceled, as her own magic lit up beneath her, a black aura rising up from the glyph beneath her feet.
The woman opened her green eyes fully then and looked through the strands of red hair that hung in her face. A smile painted her lips as she looked up towards the leader of ceremonies, who had stopped his blade mid-strike, confused. “What—what have you done?” Escaped his lips.
Amalia did not answer him. The answer would show itself soon enough.
It was funny what the mind considered in times of crisis. Lady Amalia Caporetti, an English noble with a family history in Italy from generations ago. As she found herself chained up in the middle of a room, her mind drifted to her last conversation with her father.
Now Marcus was dead.
Now her father was dead.
She had been taken from her home in her sleep, all of her servants executed, and her future denied.
Amalia’s body bore cuts that she recognized as ritual markings put on a sacrifice. She had studied these things, and she even understood the Latin that was being spoken around her. ‘They still think I’m unconscious.’ She kept her eyes shut, but she could feel the outline of the markings. ‘That, or they think I’m stupid.’ Possible. Her gender was often underestimated so far as classical training went.
Pity them.
She took in a deep breath as she felt the chains pull, and she was hoisted up by her wrists. It was painful. The blood fell down to pool below her, and she let her eyes open just a little to get a gist of the surroundings.
Circular room. Bowled, like a stadium, but all inside. Torches. Several people in robes. Her feet were still unbound. ‘Good.’ Her toe could scrape the ground.
She let her toe dip into the blood that was pooling, and carefully, subtly, she began to use her own blood to start drawing a different glyph beneath herself. As she did this, she whispered in Latin an incantation she wasn’t meant to know—but of course, she did. Her father had let her learn many things involved in their line of duty, and that meant to know what their enemies in the occult might do.
There was no tool more powerful for magic than one’s own blood.
As such, her spell countered theirs, as she timed it right. Their spell to rip her soul from her body was canceled, as her own magic lit up beneath her, a black aura rising up from the glyph beneath her feet.
The woman opened her green eyes fully then and looked through the strands of red hair that hung in her face. A smile painted her lips as she looked up towards the leader of ceremonies, who had stopped his blade mid-strike, confused. “What—what have you done?” Escaped his lips.
Amalia did not answer him. The answer would show itself soon enough.
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