It would take Marshal Perdiccas some time to muster the knights, squires, and mages-at-arms sworn directly to House Kolchis for the trip north. Some of those already resided in the castle as part of its permanent garrison, but many more were scattered across the countryside, tending to their manors.

The week passed to the shouts and sounds of intensified drill in the waryard, while the rest of the household made preparations of their own. Provisions from the castle’s larders were arranged by the stewardess to ensure they didn’t arrive starving and shivering, while the chamberlain prepared a chest of clothes and fineries to send to Aspyr considering his stay in Aelisium was going to be longer than expected.

Finally, the day of their departure arrived.

Troia brought a covered silverware set into her room, and set it down on the table. Her servant laid her hands on the cover for a moment to ensure everything was the right temperature, before lifting the lid. Mydea sat down and warmed herself with a boiling cup of sage tea—already mixed with honey according to her preferences. For breakfast was a rasher of deliciously crisp bacon with a slightly chewy middle, scrambled eggs, a side of buttered toast, and slices of pear.

As she ate, Troia opened the curtains to a dawning sun and coaxed the fireplace back to life with a touch. She turned to Mydea, assessing her with keen eyes, before saying, “I would recommend the light green dress for today, my lady. It would go nicely with your complexion.”

Mydea bobbed her head of light brown hair and Troia went to pick out the clothes. Light green suited her cool, brown skin well, and she was fortunate that it just so happened to be the color of Kolchis. At Lord Pleonexia’s court, it was not uncommon for events to require being garbed in one’s house livery, and as a result, she’d seen a handful of men and women forced into rather unflattering colors.

When she finished eating, she dabbed her mouth and wiped her hands with a napkin. She changed from her nightgown into a knee-length, loose-fitting chemise of white linen. Over this, Mydea wore an overbust corset that was laced from the back as any woman of means would. She emitted some heat to soften the baleen boning, molding it to the contours of her body before Troia laced it snugly, but not so tightly that it would hamper her in a duel. It clung to her like a warm hug—firm and supportive. Finally, the low-necked cotton gown cut in one piece from neckline to hem, lined with vair, with a flaring skirt and sleeves tight to the elbow but wide at the wrist.

The corset kept one’s back from slouching and did not allow her to bend from the waist, so she sat on her chair while Troia fitted her feet with socks, velvet indoor shoes, and a leather overshoe for the outdoors.

With one set of rituals complete, she headed out to complete another. The altar was kept separate from the keep itself and built in the style of Old Ilyos, with a long sequence of separately cut drums stacked into white columns. Four stony faces stared down from above, each great god dominating one side of the temple. Many more people came to watch, including the hystors, the senior members of the household, and many steadfast knights and mages.

The air was thick with the scent of incense. Before each member of the Pantheon and the Imperial Cult were offerings of golden honey, silver coins, and iron swords; olive oil in jars and even a bottle of fine Ambrosia from the Everbloom.

At Hystor Theios’ signal, Father stepped forward and faced west towards Nomos, the god of laws, of obedience and subservience. “I, Aetos of House Kolchis, with these learned and holy men to bear witness, do swear to deal with my daughter Mydea in good faith and without deceit, to stay my hand from steel or sorcery unless our lives fall into imminent peril, or she consents to my violence. By the Great Gods Above and Divine Syngian, may this oath bind me until I return to Aigis or destroy me if I forswear.”

“Let it be so,” Theios said.

“Let it be so,” Mydea repeated in chorus with all present.

When her father stepped back into the crowd, it was her turn. “Nomos, god of rulers and the ruled, hear my vow! I ask for success on this journey, that I might collect the lord’s portion due to my brother from House Pyli and the town of Phaleinas. For this favor, I shall offer a flawless white lamb, firstborn and fat, and a cup of my blood.”

Theios handed her a cursed knife with open palms, the inky black hexagram of the hystors visible on them.

She sliced open her left palm with a swift slip of the knife, then to be certain, commanded the moisture in the air to stick her flesh back together. A light suffused her hand for a moment, before sputtering out without effect. Sacrifice without meaning is no sacrifice at all, Mydea thought, watching as the warm, viscous liquid oozed out and part of her witchery with it.

The hystor made sure to collect it all in a ceremonial cup. When it was filled, Troia sprung forward to bandage her hand with a clean cloth.

Mydea suppressed a hiss at the sting of wine against her wound. Her eyes never left her blood though, not until every last drop had been burned in offering and the floor scoured of any trace.

Outside, one of the hystor’s senior disciples waited besides a sheep decorated with garlands. Hystor Theios inspected it one last time. When it had been deemed perfect of its kind, Mydea drove her mother’s sword from the highest point of its head straight down towards the angle of the jaw, killing it in one stroke.

Holy men and women cried out high, shrill tones as it was butchered, and Theios pulled out the organs and bones. He studied each piece carefully, before declaring, “Nomos has heard your words, my lady.” The blood was collected and poured over the altar, while the innards were burnt as Nomos’ portion. The rest of the sheep would not go to waste, with the meat prepared for winter and the skin sold to the tanners.

Prayer and sacrifice were no surety of success, of course. The athenaeum taught there were four defects in a vow, and a defect of sacrifice was most commonly invoked. The gods might think an offering inadequate for the favor asked, or thought themselves cheated in some form.

“Any lightheadedness?” Father asked as he sidled up to her. An offering of blood could leave one's magic weakened for a month or more.

“Nothing serious,” Mydea said as she took his proffered arm, and was escorted to the waiting Snowscorn. She bunched up her skirt, tucking them back and under so that she sat on them when she mounted the pegasus.