Page 138 of The Blood Rites

I don’t say anything else. There’s nothing left to say. I could talk about Callen’s sacrifice. I could try to explain why I left her, or what I was really thinking, but it doesn’t matter. I left her. I chose.

I just hold her and pretend that I deserve to.

She wipes her face on her sleeve, then looks up at me. “We’re not going to make it, are we?”

I want to lie, to give her hope. So, I do.

“You might,” I say.

She snorts. “Liar.”

We share the silence again, but it isn’t so heavy now.

We’ve known our fate since we were chosen. Somehow, that doesn’t make it easier to face.

I think of Alaris, who came here on a gamble and died like a real Champion. I want to tell her. I want to say that he’s gone. But the words won’t come. Like if I don’t say it out loud, he might still show up at dinner.

Instead, I squeeze her shoulder. “If you win, don’t let them bury me somewhere ugly.”

She punches my arm. “That’s not funny.”

I manage a laugh, weak and wet, but it’s a laugh all the same.

We lean against each other, and I try not to think about anything else. I try not to think about her being one of the last good things left here.

The hum of the Embrace seeps into my bones again, reminding me that another trial is coming. More death. More chances to fail them.

For now, I just hold her—like letting go would make it come faster.

The Dome should be for training. For surviving the next trial. Right now, it feels like a cell. I just want to hit something that can’t look me in the eye.

I’ve been here for an hour, maybe more. My knuckles feel raw—even as the skin knits itself together between blows. The target dummy sways, its sandbag torso blooming with fist-shaped imprints. Each strike lands with a shallow thud that echoes through the hollow room. I keep hitting. I want to feel something break that isn’t me.

I picture Alaris burning. Not the golden afterglow of his life force, but the way his flesh peeled from his bones beneath me, taking parts of me with him. The smell of it, the sound of his voice right before the end. The promise I made that I have no way of keeping. He deserved better than that.

I couldn’t save him.

I don’t save anyone.

I swing again, this time with my whole body, and it’s a mess. The impact jars my teeth, rattling my skull as the vibrations travel up my arm.

I hear footsteps behind me—my blood chills—but I don’t turn around.

“Your form is sloppy,” says Kael, his tone even, clinical.

I grit my teeth to stop my heart from giving me away. “I know.”

He watches me in silence.

I keep hitting the dummy, but secretly I’m waiting. For his critique, his command, anything. I just want to hear his voice. Fuck. That sounds pathetic.

Instead, he steps in close. The chill of his Mana brushes over me, but the warmth coming from his skin is undeniable—the burn of recent pain, or something deeper, some hunger I don’t understand.

He slides his palms under my elbows, steadying me. My knees weaken. His hands are gentle but unyielding. My muscles tense, expecting him to restrain me, to make me still, but he holds me instead—not to hurt, but to keep me from hurting myself. It shouldn’t shock me. He’s never been violent with me, not really. But something monstrous lives just beneath his skin, and my body knows it.

Can I really trust anyone in this place?

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he murmurs, as if we are the only two people left in the world and I am his sole responsibility.