Page 155 of The Blood Rites

Four are missing.

A branch cracks to my right, and Nyxen turns. He’s slower than usual. Serraith is there, vaulting over roots and broken trunks with a predatory grace I’ve not seen in him before. His uniform is in tatters, sleeves ripped away, his brand exposed, but his face is undamaged—if anything, he looks more spirited and smug than ever. He doesn’t say anything to us. He just takes a spot beneath the Mother Shard’s crown, eyes locked on Kael and Vaelis.

We’ve somehow arranged ourselves like sacrificial pieces in a ring, as if by instinct—or by design. Kael glances at him, and something in his face curdles in disgust. Vaelis, meanwhile, gives Serraith a once-over—cold and clinical—then dismisses him entirely.

A tense silence stretches. No one speaks. The only sound is the low hum of the Mother Shard’s magic, as though she is deciding which of us to break next.

Another figure glides into the clearing—Atheron, walking like he owns the Heartlands. Behind him, stumbling through the grass, is Marissa.

I nearly go to my knees.

She’s not dead.

But she’s not whole either. Her uniform is burned, fabric melted into her shoulder and arm. One eye is swollen shut, and her hair is gone in patches, like it was torn out by the roots. She keeps her face down, teeth bared, staggering behind Atheron like a prisoner on a leash.

I reach for her, but Nyxen clamps a hand on my wrist, holding me back. Across the makeshift ring, Kael shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

Vaelis breaks the silence. “You look like shit,” he says to Serraith, cold and flat.

Serraith flashes a dark smile, jerking his chin toward Kael. “Better than your prince.”

I glance at Kael, and for a moment, he meets my eyes. The desperation there is raw and unmistakable before he wrenches his gaze away.

“Where’s Morwen?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I already know.

Serraith cocks his head, considering me. “Does it matter?” His voice is ice-cold. “She stopped screaming eventually.”

I swallow bile, my head swimming. Nyxen’s grip is the only thing tethering me to the world. My hands are shaking, and I can’t stop them.

Marissa falls to her knees. She doesn’t look at me, but her mouth moves silently, shaping words I can’t hear. Her body trembles with exhaustion. I want to go to her, but I can’t move. Nyxen is a statue at my back, expressionless, but I feel the tremor running through his grip on my arm.

Atheron paces back and forth, each step placed with deliberate precision. He looks immaculate, completely untouched by the trial. Impossible.

He surveys us like we’re a disappointment. “Just the seven of us,” he muses. “One more ought to be enough.”

Serraith snickers, but the sound is hollow. Kael grits his teeth, then speaks for the first time, voice ragged. “What’s your plan, Atheron? You seem to have some sort of performance in mind.”

Atheron’s eyes flick to Kael, appraising. “Very good, young Prince,” he says. “But I’m not the performer, and the show is already underway.” He gestures to the death counter, which pulses faster now, as if aware of its own hunger.

Vaelis shifts, adjusting his grip on Kael. The motion is awkward, pain flashing across his face. He’s injured too. “What are we waiting for, then?” he asks.

Atheron tilts his head back, sighing deeply. “Patience,” he says. “All in good time.”

Serraith cracks his knuckles. “I’ve got one more in me.” He glances at me. “Your turn next, Lightborn.”

“You killed Morwen,” I say, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “She was harmless.”

“Not that harmless.” Serraith shrugs. “Sharp nails, you see. Fought harder than I expected.”

The words don’t mean anything at first. Then they do.

It’s Marissa who finally looks up, her one good eye filling with tears. “You’re all monsters.” Her voice comes out like broken glass.

A moment passes in which everything—time and air and breath—stops. I feel so very small, like I am nothing at all.

Atheron catches my eye, and I see what he wants. Not only victory. Not even survival. He wants to see me broken, stripped of even the illusion of hope. I want to disappear into the earth. Instead, I stand there, hands vibrating, every cell in my body desperate to flee.

Atheron raises a hand, palm up, and the air above it ignites. Serraith does the same. Fire coils above us, spinning into a perfect sphere.