Tales of Desire
I could taste his satisfaction like rot.
The High Elder, a woman named Morven whose voice could flay skin, lifted the silver bowl. Inside, the Ritual of Truth swirled: water from the Moonwell, nightshade, and my own blood drawn at dawn. One sip and every lie would sear my throat like molten iron. One lie and I would choke on my own heart before I hit the ground.
“Alpha Talim of Whiterod,” Morven intoned, “you are accused of defiling sacred law. Of taking an omega to your bed while bound to a Luna. Of betraying the goddess herself. Step forward and drink.”