“But it won’t be a true second life, will it?” the paladin asked. He had been informed of Mari’s purpose, though how well he understood it, she did not yet know. “You aren’t bringing Endarius back. You’re letting him use your body like a puppet.”

“More like ‘share,’” Mari said. This was a conversation she was painfully familiar with, but she held the utmost confidence in her abilities. “There is a realm beyond life, and it is there your god now resides, without a physical body to grant him a presence in our world. I offer him that body. I will take his power, and his faith, into my heart and soul. Through me, he will live.”

“Endarius lives in all our hearts,” the first woman said. “Yet none of us would think to become the Lion.”

“None of you are god-whisperers.”

“Enough,” Amhir said. “Begin the ceremony, paladin. The decision is made. Carry it through.”

“You seek to create a pale shade of the mighty Lion’s former glory,” the paladin said. “But we dwell in the deepest, darkest of valleys. I shall extend to you a bit of faith, Mari Ahlai. May you repay it in kind. Now give to me your arm.”

All others extended arms with the palms downward. The paladin retrieved one of the long feathers, then readied his knife.

“Pray for mercy,” he whispered. “Pray for guidance. We come before the Lion.”

The others in attendance took up a whispery chant. Each was unique, not a predetermined scripture but heartfelt confessions by each attendee. Words flowed over Mari, spoken in the Thanese tongue, and her word-lace struggled to translate them in her mind. Pleas for guidance, for mercy. Cries of pain and sorrow and fear for the future awaiting the island in imperial hands. The need for comfort overwhelmed everything. They were afraid, so afraid, and Mari yearned to give them some measure of peace. Their hope, their belief, would not die. Not even when they saw the Lion speared by a paragon, and witnessed his body break before the capital.

“Pray for strength,” the paladin continued. “Pray for humility. We bow before the Lion.”

The paladin cut a shallow line above the wrist and across the forearm of an attendee. Little murmurs and cries of pain accompanied it, but they only seemed to add to the chorus of prayers. Into that blood he dipped the feather, coating its white surface, before returning the feather to the center circle.

“By blood we prove our loyalty,” he said with each cut. “By blood we offer our faith.”

One by one, the paladin painted the feathers. The attic seemed to darken with every cut. The prayers, while still whispered, grew like an encroaching thunderstorm. A chill wind blew across her that no wall could ever stop. The presence of a god. The arrival of the divine.

At last, the paladin brought the knife to Mari.