Page 156 of The Blood Rites

“Now,” Atheron shouts.

The ball of fire drops, slamming into the ground. Flame erupts, violent and blinding, splitting us apart. Nyxen, Vaelis, and Serraith are cut off behind the flames.

On this side:

Kael. Marissa. Atheron.

And me.

The heat is immediate and overwhelming. Grass and trees ignite around the clearing as the fire consumes everything it touches.

Kael is on the ground, dragging himself forward, one hand pressed to his spine, the other clawing at the dirt.

Marissa stands, swaying on her feet, arms limp at her sides. She is so small in the firelight, her shadow huge and wild behind her.

I call out to her, but she doesn't respond.

Atheron paces towards her, the fire haloing his figure. His eyes are pitiless, almost bored, as though we are just pawns in a game, nothing more.

“Come here,” he says to Marissa, and she does, stumbling with every step.

She stands before him, head bowed.

“Shall we show them what we practised?”

She nods, the smallest movement, all the bravery she has left.

I don’t move. I don’t know if I’m supposed to save her—or if this is the part where I fail.

Atheron drags Marissa forward until the blaze illuminates them both. The death counter flickers above as Atheron shoves her to centre stage.

Broken as he is, Kael tries to move towards me. Pain contorts his face, but he fights, dragging himself forward on his elbows.

The world is burning.

Atheron clears his throat. “In the Fire Dominion, power is earned.”

He pauses, fire crackling at his fingertips. “Shall I demonstrate?”

Marissa looks up, right at me. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t beg.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths.

I try to scream, but the heat has turned my throat to ash.

Lightning strikes a nearby pillar, and the flash burns across my vision.

Overseers rise from the ground. One. Then more. Seven in total. They rise in a single, unhurried gesture, arms unfolding in unison, faces turned to the sky.

They float like sentinels for a moment—then shift into a ballet of synchronised motion, every gesture mirrored.

This is theatre for them. Ritual. A show for the Mother Shard’s private audience.

And it’s about to begin.

The stone pillars begin to radiate with a deep blue pulse, warning of something worse to come.

The Mother Shard’s crown floats above, pulsing with insatiable hunger. The number eleven burns so bright I can see its afterimage even when I close my eyes. The air thickens, burning and strange, as though I can taste the coming storm on my tongue—metallic and charged.