As he did, Apollius smiled.
The gasps of the courtiers turned to screams. Some of them rushed to the doors; others just stood in shock, watching their King bleed out.
Still standing upright, Apollius raised both hands to His chest, wetting them with Bastian’s blood. Briefly, He touched Olivier’s cheek, leaned in to whisper something in his ear.
With blood on his face, Olivier beamed.
The hum of channeling changed direction; Jax, freed from Apollius’s hold, still didn’t move. He stared at his god, jaw locked tight. He knew what this was now.
The big reveal.
Looking skyward, Apollius stretched out both hands, blood on His palms and on His chest, looking just like the statues of Him that dotted the Citadel. He held the position for a long moment, long enough for every eye in the North Sanctuary to mark the resemblance.
The hole in His chest began to close.
It only took a moment, the wound healing neatly, though crimson still stained His white shirt. The panicked cries of the nobles turned to murmurs, to shocked gasps.
But that wasn’t enough. Bastian had been able to heal wounds, too; He had to do more to really convince them.
Outside, the sun brightened rapidly, enough for Alie to shield her eyes. The light came in through the stained-glass window behind the lectern, outlining Apollius in blazing glow. Making Him look like a god.
The hum of channeling was almost enough to drive her mad, now, an infernal buzz in her ears that itched like a mosquito bite. Wind howled in her head, a storm only she could hear, Apollius’s power calling to her own.
He raised His hands. The sun kept shining, but the unmistakable sound of a thunderclap reverberated through the air, rattling the walls. Rain lashed against the windows, a sudden downpour that couldn’t be mistaken for natural.
Displaying all the magic He had. Spiritum, and the power of Caeliar, stolen from Amelia.
“I did not mean to reveal Myself so early.” His voice had an extra resonance, reverberating as much as the thunder. “I have not been honest with you, My faithful. I am not Bastian Arceneaux, blessed with the power of Apollius.” He looked down from the vaulted ceiling, down to the cowering nobles. “I am a vessel for our god. I have become Him, in the flesh.”
Beside her, Jax let out a long, slow breath.
Silence in the Sanctuary. There was a chance they wouldn’t believe Him; they’d seen Him use this power while still pretending to be Bastian, if not so spectacularly.
Apollius seemed to know this. He turned to Olivier, bowing on the floor, his forehead pressed against the wood.
“And threats against Me cannot stand,” He said, sounding almost sorrowful.
Olivier looked up, brows knit.
Apollius’s hand closed to a fist. Immediately, Olivier convulsed, his veins standing out thick on his skin, eyes popping nearly free of their sockets. He rose toward the vaulted ceiling, carried by threads of Spiritum, the god’s grip defying gravity.
Right in front of the window, Olivier dangled in midair, gasping, his heart beating so furiously it could be seen beneath his shirt. His arms stretched to the sides. His head dropped forward.
And his eyes exploded from his head, the pressure of his rapidly pumping heart pushing them out of his skull.
Blood sprayed the front rows of pews. Alie felt it lash against her cheek, hot and metallic.
Apollius dropped His hand. Olivier’s body fell to the floor.
A show of power, and a threat. Apollius was not one to do things by halves.
He turned to the silent congregation, His face somehow both sorrowful and triumphant. “I am your King and your god,” He said. “And together, we will make the Holy Kingdom.”
No one spoke. No one breathed.
Gingerly, Apollius stepped over the mess of Olivier, closer to the congregation. “Danger is coming, and it is more than war,” He said. “My wife should have died the night of the eclipse. I saved her, blinded by love. But her continued existence means the rest of the pantheon, those faithless gods who turned on Me and wrecked the world, have risen as well. I will protect you from Them. I will be a wall against Their wickedness.” He raised His arms. “You only must believe.”
Lord Villiers was the first to bow. He fell to his knees, pressing his head against the floor. Others followed, some crying, others mouthing prayers. The silence slipped into a clamor of awful, fearful joy, some hands raised, some beginning to sing.
