Page 153 of The Blood Rites

Something in the stone answers.

“What are you—” Nyxen starts.

A deep groan cuts him off, shuddering through the slab.

The ground shifts.

Then the stone shifts—an inch, maybe less. But it’s enough.

“Move,” I gasp.

He does, dragging himself free before staggering to his feet. He tests his leg and manages to walk, though with a limp.

Nyxen looks at the stone. Then at me. Not confused, but calculating. Like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have.

For the first time, his neutrality cracks into something real and unguarded. Gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says.

I nod, too spent to reply.

We limp onward as water begins to lap at our feet. The tunnel slopes upwards, the water sloshing and rising, but not fast enough to submerge us fully.

It’s up to our knees when we finally emerge into open air.

We are in a clearing. The sky above is dark, but the silver moon washes everything in cold light. The clearing is circular—perfect and unnatural. In the centre, the Mother Shard rises, a towering crystal spire, pulsing pink at the edges. It looms over us, beautiful and indifferent.

The death counter is still at eleven.

Nyxen stands at my side, breathing hard.

I’m wet through, my boots filled with water, my skin slick with sweat and dust.

“There’s no going back,” he says.

I look at him, then at the arena waiting ahead.

“You’re right,” I say. “I need to find Marissa. I hope she’s with Kael.”

He nods, and together, we step into the clearing, the future closing around us like a fist.

The clearing is a stage, and I don’t know which part I’m meant to play.

Nyxen limps beside me, each step drawing a grunt of pain from him. The air out here is colder than the cave, but cleaner somehow, even with the looming threat of what’s coming. We cross the short grass, moonlight painting each blade. Great stone pillars ring the clearing, breaking the sight lines among sparse trees and loose, snarling roots.

The Mother Shard looms ahead. I crane my neck, but the higher I look, the more she seems to bend, like a flower searching for the sun. The structure looks wrong—stretched too tall, pulled too thin. It hums in greeting.

We are halfway across the field when the shift happens.

The Mother Shard’s crystal tower spasms—then splits—fracturing into hollow rings that tear free from it. They rise, twisting and glowing, and lock into one another—until there is no tower left. Only a single, perfect ring in the sky.

The ring explodes, shattering and morphing into the crystalline crown we know so well. It floats there, held aloft by nothing at all.

Beneath the crown, numbers burn in the air, golden and merciless.

Two ones.

Eleven.