Page 105 of The Blood Rites

“I’m going,” Callen says. He hoists Morwen into his arms, cradling her with an awkward tenderness, and runs. He doesn’t even look back. Not at me. Not at Marissa.

Lyssandra looks ready to resist, but Callen has already disappeared into the mist. Instead, she sinks to her knees, taking up her prayers once again.

Marissa grips my arm, her fingers trembling as the fire draws closer. For a breath, it seems like she might follow Callen.

I almost tell her to. But I don’t.

Alaris doesn’t wait for permission. He turns towards the Light island and runs, grief driving each step.

Marissa and I stand together as the fire approaches, the shadows in the mist growing longer, sharper, more treacherous.

They aren’t coming for everyone.

They’re coming for me.

I don’t feel brave, not even close.

But this time, I won’t run.

At first there is only the taste of burning in the air. A dry heat that scratches my nose and catches at the back of my throat. I brace myself as they come into view—three figures march in a shallow V, their leader unmistakable even through the swirling fog.

Atheron walks in front, his steps so fluid and graceful they barely touch the ground. To his left is Maleiros, sturdy and broad, his eyes glazed over in a distant haze. To his right is Serraith, wiry yet equally menacing, his hands flexing, wreathed in restless, living flames.

They spread out, encircling us—not charging, but tightening their formation like predators savouring the fear.

Marissa trembles next to me, suddenly every bit the child she is: shoulders hunched, face pinched, all her bravado leeched away by the heat.

Lyssandra hasn’t moved; she hasn’t even looked up. Her lips continue moving in prayer—the sound is soft and rhythmic, but I can’t make out the words. I want to scream at her to get up and fight, but the peace in her expression stops me.

“Luceris!” Marissa hisses, grabbing my arm.

The first flicker of flame comes from Serraith—an almost playful toss of fire that arcs just over my head, close enough to feel its heat. It isn’t meant to harm me. Not yet. Only to remind me who’s in control.

I shove Marissa behind me. My own Mana throbs under my skin, but fear makes it flutter.

“Don’t be shy,” Atheron mocks. “We’re all friends here.”

Maleiros launches a slow, lazy fireball directly at my chest. I barely manage to throw up a shield, and the impact makes my arms shake. The golden barrier holds. I release it, shaking out the tension in my fingertips.

“Pathetic,” Serraith jeers. He darts closer, eyes dancing. “You barely got that up in time. You really think you can take all three of us?”

Lyssandra continues her prayer, her voice a song rising above the taunts until the words blend into a single unbroken note.

Atheron watches, amused, his lips curling in genuine delight.

He approaches slowly, hands behind his back, utterly relaxed.

The other two retreat into the mist.

“You know, the last time I won the Rites, the Lightborn never made it past the first trial. It was a massacre. But this year, the Mother Shard is restless—unpredictable.” He stops a few paces away, his eyes glittering amber. “I suppose it must be quite boring when the Offerings are this weak. Perhaps she’s trying to amuse herself. The death count is not the same, you see.”

He glances at Marissa behind me, then back at me, lingering for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Just like that embarrassment of a Crown of yours. Three pointless Offerings, barely able to summon a flicker—well, except you. You tricked the Blessed somehow. That is interesting.” He waves his hand, a dismissive gesture. “No matter. You’ll still have to die.”

A cackling laugh rolls through the mist—Maleiros’ or Serraith’s; I can’t tell which.

Marissa bites down hard, but a tear slips down her cheek and drips from her chin. “Please,” she whispers. “Please let us go.”

Atheron cocks his head, almost considering. “You want mercy? In this game of death?”