There’s that heavy commitment again.
I know all about it. Even at this very moment, my mother is on some covert mission. I haven’t seen her in months, which, let’s be honest, is probably a good thing. I’ve had fewer chances to do something disappointing in her eyes. But I’ve been ready to make this choice my entire life, regardless of what it costs me. I’ll pay the price.
The professor holds his arms out to his sides in a grand gesture, slowly turning to address both units in the audience. “These cadets will become your brothers and sisters in arms. They will suffer alongside you as well as succeed by your side. Your loss is their loss. Their gain is your gain. This is the moment that they offer their sacrifice and loyalty to the military and General Porter.”
I press my lips into a thin line.
I was wondering when we’d be hearing his name. The infamous five-star general who runs Salaryan with an iron fist. I’ve heard that his family has been doing so for centuries. In this land, he is judge, jury, and executioner. However, in his eyes, he’s more comparable to an untouchable god.
I’m pretty sure he still bleeds. So, more of a narcissist than a god, really.
The only person worse than him whom I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet on several occasions is his right-hand man, Prime Minister Henderson. A greasy, scheming, and wholly untrustworthy specimen. Hopefully, we’re spared from them making an appearance today. It’s unlikely, as cadets at the academy fall pretty low on the priorities of high-ranking officials.Especiallythose two.
Finally, the professor turns around to address us, his face partially obscured and only the bottom half of his jawline visible. Thin lips atop a weak chin are the only indication we have of his appearance. Depending on his next actions, you can bet your ass that I’ll be looking at every single one of my professor’s lower jaws in the near future.
“I will call you up one by one for you to perform your blood offering. Once everyone has joined their blood into the goblet, we will move on to the next crucial step.”
He steps to the side of the pillar, making room for a first-year to join.
I throw up a silent prayer of gratitude that we sat in the middle. It gives me a chance to prepare for exactly what we’re offering. They haven’t been very forthcoming about that part.
“We’ll start in the middle and work our way down one side, then the other,” he says as he points at me.
Of course we’re starting in the middle.
Why wouldn’t we start in the middle?
He folds his hands in front of his stomach as he waits for me to rise. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hesitating.
I stand and slowly walk toward him. I don’t look at my friends, though, afraid of what I’ll see on their faces. My steps are deliberate as I walk and stop directly across from him on the other side of the goblet.
This is where I’ll stand and bleed for tradition.
I cautiously peer down.
It’s empty, and the morbid part of my brain wonders how much blood it would take to fill it. The serpent remains still, ready to strike.
I take a deep breath as he raises his hand, gesturing for mine.
Slowly, I bring it up and set it into his waiting palm. His firm, cool grip is a stark contrast to my damp, sweaty one. His other hand reaches into his deep cloak pocket and pulls out acrimson-colored dagger about the size of my forearm. The lethal tip hovers above my upturned wrist. Dark blue veins stand out against my pale skin, and I fear they act as a beacon for his weapon. It’s as if they are offering themselves as tribute.
No one speaks.
The scrape of a boot against the stone floor reaches my ears, a stark contrast to the otherwise silent hall. I can feel a low, pulsing strain running through the students in the pews—part reverence, part hunger—as all eyes are fixed on me.
I bite down on the inside of my lip, forcing myself to hold still and not show any signs of the fear permeating through my entire body. I doubt anyone wants to be willingly cut open, but add an audience and it becomes exponentially more terrifying, for some reason.
It’s a vulnerable feeling of being violated for entertainment.
The professor’s lips pull into a sinister smile right before he starts speaking in a language I don’t recognize or understand. The words are rapid and harsh. The tip of the knife presses into my wrist, but it has yet to draw any blood. He continues speaking in the foreign language, while squeezing my wrist in his beefy palm.
My breaths come out in rapid bursts as if the very air I’m breathing is painful, but I don’t pull my wrist away, and I don’t squirm.
My stomach churns.
A drop of sweat slides down my back.
I feel everyone staring at me.
