Aria’s POV
The altar ruins looked nothing like they had in my dream. In the dream, the place had been alive. Golden light had flowed through the ancient markings, and the air had vibrated with a power so immense that even Lydia had been frightened. Now, everything was silent.
I stood at the center of it all, staring at the altar. The place where my mother had died. The stones answered. A low vibration climbed through the soles of my feet, up my legs, into the hollow place behind my ribs where the bloodline lived.
Golden threads of energy stirred beneath the surface, restless and hungry. I raised my hands the way my mother had raised hers in the vision and spoke the words that had never been meant for living tongues.
The ritual locked into place.
Power slammed upward. For one blinding
