Even a while later, Lysse still lay atop the limp, blood-wet body of the boy, lingering there blissfully and savoring the death beneath her. Her eyelids fluttered open and shut in the thick silence, and she almost missed the repeating sounds that broke it.
Bootsteps.
Slow and deliberate, coming from the darkness at the far end of the chamber's nave. The sound of leather on stone echoed up the cracked pillars, carrying with it the faint clink of chainmail.
Her eyes snapped open, and she sat upright astride the boy.
No one else was supposed to be here. Not yet.
She slid her knife from the boy's chest, warm blood trailing down her wrist and dripping from her elbow onto the altar. It still made her skin tingle wildly with pleasure.
A figure emerged from the darkness — tall, armored, with a half-mask hiding his face from the nose up. He stopped just shy of the torchlight.
Lysse frowned. "You're early," she said.
"You're late," the man replied. His voice was calm, but entirely devoid of warmth. "And you've brought another child."
Lysse smiled. "You sound disappointed, Vrenen."
"I am."
The torches surrounding the altar sputtered to life, as if in agreement. Somewhere deep in the temple, stone groaned. The god, Lysse's dearest Father, was listening.
"I told you," Vrenen said. "Our god cares only for numbers. Not innocence, or rank, or any of that. Not … this."
"Beauty," Lyss said, "Is what you call this." She slid from the altar, her bare feet landing in a warm splash of red. "But I know you wouldn't understand. So—I'll have another two before sunrise."
"Beggars, this time, as I've said before," Vrenen replied. "People who are easily forgotten. Or perhaps you'll be the next person lying on that altar."
The shadows swallowed him again.
Lysse glanced back at the boy's limp form. The warmth was already fading from him, and she felt a flicker of irritation. Such sweetness, gone so quickly. Perhaps that, along with Vrenen's preaching, was why everyone insisted on quantity, rather than quality.
Regardless, she would carve her own path.
She grinned, licking a drop of blood from her lips and savoring the metallic taste. "Two more," she whispered to the boy, stroking his cooling cheek with the back of her bloodied hand. "Better make it fun."
With her palm lingering against his skin, she drew a long, slow breath, inhaling the scent of his death.
After a moment had passed, the bones in her arms and legs began shifting. Her skin rippled and twisted. The angles of her jaw softened, and her spine curled in on itself with a series of pops and snaps, becoming shorter. Her hair drew itself upward into a short, tangled brown mop, and her skin grew dark, freckles blooming across cheeks that were nothing like her own.
In moments, her body had changed to that of the boy. She stood beside him, an identical copy, though naked and slick with his drying blood.
She stepped away from the altar, flexing her borrowed fingers, turning them over and testing the fit.
After that, a thought, and the air around her shimmered. Blood vanished into nothing, replaced by a simple tunic and trousers.
She tugged at the illusory fabric, watching it shift and stretch under her touch. "Perfect," she murmured in the boy's voice. "Now onward, in Father's name."
She grasped her knife and stepped into the darkness.