The silence that followed felt like a verdict.
Era sat motionless, the dark mirror's surface empty once more. Peter's face flashed before her -wide-eyed, bloodied, improbably still.
'She had killed the prophet.' Era turned the thought over like a splinter under her skin.
The absurdity of it all set spark to an area of her mind that had remained dormant from the moment she'd stepped inside the death chapel.
I mean 'Was this really her fault?'
'How was she to know the man hell-bent on sacrificing her was actually one of the good guys?'
'Besides if he was so important, they should have had the foresight to invest in some armour. Or a name tag'
But the humour, as always, ran thin. It cracked around the edges, letting the guilt bleed through.
The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.
There was no arguing her way out of this. This organisation, H.V.N, was keen on blaming her and Era had witnessed enough of these types of conversations in her professional life to know what that meant.
"Are you going to kill me?" Era asked, voice steady.
The woman didn't answer.
Not at first.
She stood there, framed by the flickering candlelight, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched long enough to make Era's skin crawl.
Then she spoke, voice flat and unblinking. "Yes."
A beat passed.
"Or at least, that's what I want to do."
She took a few steps closer, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. "But that is not my choice to make. I am only here to deliver your choices."
Era's throat felt tight. "Plural?"
"One."
Era managed a ghost of a smile. 'Of course it was'.
The woman came to a halt, folding her hands behind her back. "There are laws, older than scripture, older than the gods themselves. Cosmic laws that shape fate, govern balance, and bind even the divine, or so they say. They are also fickle, no-one understands their triggers, their conditions, their effect."
She paused.
" But patterns do emerge,"
Era narrowed her eyes.'Where was she going with this?'
"One such is called the Law of Transference," the woman continued. "It's rare, but it has occurred before. We believe the law dictates when someone of divine importance dies before fulfilling their purpose, their prophecy doesn't die with them. It passes. Through death. Through blood. To the one who caused it."
Era stared at her. "You're serious?"
She nodded once curtly.
"The elders believe Peter's prophecy didn't end with him. They believe it may have transferred to you. Or at the very least," she added with a shrug, "they think it's worth testing."
"That's—" Era stopped herself.
"They have nothing left to lose," the woman said. "Our prophet is dead. The war is turning against us. The Illuminati grow bolder by the day. This is a desperate hope, yes, but not a baseless one. They've seen this happen before under similar conditions."
Era's voice was barely above a whisper. "And how do they plan to test it?"
"They want you to become blessed."
"I thought blessings came from the gods?"
"They do. A human has never been able to earn a blessing," she said. "But you can force an audience. If you drink raw ichor, it will pull your consciousness into the divine realm. There, you can plead your case. If a god answers, if they bless you, the elders will take it as proof. You are the new prophet."
Era let out a breath, dry and low. "And if no one shows?"
"Then you don't wake up."
"And if I refuse?"
Her voice was ice. "Then I will kill you myself."
She stepped forward and placed a small, silver flask on the ground between them. It shimmered faintly, glowing from within like captured starlight.
Era stared at it, pulse fluttering. No excuses. No clever way out. Just one impossible step forward.
She reached for the flask, her fingers trembling.
She looked back up at the woman. "Do you have a name, or should I just keep refering to you as death in heels in my head?"
The woman's mouth twitched. "Mira."
Era nodded slowly, then tightened her grip on the flask.
"One last thing, Mira," she said, eyes still on the flask. Her voice was calm, edged with dry resignation.
"There doesn't happen to be a God of Charity by chance?"
Mira didn't blink. "No."
Era exhaled through her nose, half a laugh. "Just my luck."
She tipped the flask back, not waiting for courage, or reason, to catch up.