Page 172 of The Blood Rites

He huffs, then brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckle. The devotion in it feels out of place. “You’re dangerous,” he says. But this time, there’s awe in it too.

“I don’t feel dangerous. I feel—” I stop, unsure what it is I feel.

He closes the distance between us. His lips find mine, hesitant at first, then hungrier, almost desperate. I kiss back, relishing the heat of him, the quiet break in all the fear. Our tongues meet, and my hands fist his hair, his shirt, anything I can grab. There is nothing careful about it. We kiss like frightened things. I want to crawl inside his skin and anchor myself to him.

He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my bones. “I want you,” he says, as if he’s surprised by it.

Our mouths linger against each other, our breaths ragged with want.

I inhale his scent, resting my forehead against his. “Perhaps,” I say, swallowing hard. Heat crawls up my neck, but I force myself to keep going. “If we survive the next trial, you can have me.”

His eyes light up with a fever—no violence, no threat. Only hunger. Need.

“Finally,” he says, the glint in his eye returning. “Something to live for.”

He rolls us onto our sides, keeping me wrapped in his arms. We are warm and breathless, lips still bruised from the kiss.

I begin to cry, soft and quiet. Even more embarrassing.

He kisses the tears away, one by one.

We drift into sleep, cocooned together, our heartbeats finding the same rhythm.

Before I go under, I hear him whisper, “Tomorrow, when we wake... I’ll find you. No matter where she puts us.”

I believe him.

Twenty Two

I’m standing ankle-deep in black dust.

It eats the light, moving around my feet like something alive, each particle swirling in soft, hungry spirals. Every breath tastes of burnt metal and something ancient left too long in the dark. The world is empty and boundless, an infinite void in every direction, but every hair on my arms stands on end. I am being watched.

The whole place hums with the low, rhythmic pulse I know by heart.

She is here. She is always here.

I know this is a dream. There is no way for it not to be. The clarity is so sharp, it blurs the distance between experience and pain. I am more awake here than in my own body.

The dust at my feet gathers itself upwards, swirling in denser and denser lines until it takes a shape: two legs, then a torso, then arms. The shoulders are exactly right. The face, when it settles, is so precise it hurts—from the slant of his mouth to the way his eyebrows arch. My heart lurches, ready to sprint or stop altogether.

He steps forward, ash sloughing off his skin like flesh from bone. “You look lost,” he says, and the sound is almost soothing. The cadence, the drawl—it’s perfect. When he touches my cheek, his palm is warm and steady, a pressure I want to lean into. The world outside the two of us falls away.

His fingers start to bend. Not at the joints, but above them—a boneless, fluid twist. His hands stay on my face, but the fingers splay out, then shudder like a dying insect. He tries to smile, but his lips drag too far, exposing teeth that are too white. The eyes go flat for a moment—white, pink, then white again.

Behind the false Kael’s voice is another, older and vaster, trembling with grief. It overlays his words at first, before devouring them entirely.

“You plot against me,” the voice says, echoing from everywhere and nowhere.

The false Kael’s mouth moves, but the Mother Shard speaks. “Play your part.”

His body advances, its shadow growing, the eyes burning with twisted devotion. I try to move backwards, but the black powder has climbed my calves, holding me in place.

“If you must win, then win,” she says. “But stop fighting me.” The words vibrate under my skin.

The false Kael’s face twists, almost in pain, and for a moment, it’s like the real him is shining through—trapped behind his own eyes.

But his jaw is locked, and the Mother Shard speaks through it, softer now, pleading. “Be my champion, my sweet child.”