Page 185 of The Blood Rites

Nyxen burned for Kael—for me.

The sound of chains rattles through my brain.

Enough.

Something in me rebels. Not rage. Not even fear. Just pure clarity: I am done letting people decide who I am.

I press my palms flat to his chest and pull on the thread of my Mana.

Unravelling it all.

The light is not careful. It is not a shield. It erupts from my hands in a raw, golden flash, the kind that cares nothing for control. It lifts Atheron and throws him into the opposite wall with a sound like shattering glass.

The floor fractures where the light meets it, golden fissures running the width of the corridor.

Atheron slides to the floor, dazed, his injuries already healing. He sits there for a moment, eyes wide, before he laughs. Not mocking, but real laughter—cruel and delighted.

He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. He scans the cracks in the floor, then looks at me with a new expression.

Not respect. Not quite. But a sort of fascination laced with predation, like a man who has just seen something he thought extinct.

He doesn’t say another word. He turns and walks away, whistling.

I stand in the corridor, hands still lit, chest heaving.

I don’t just want to survive anymore.

I’m going to choose.

The heat of the blast lingers on my skin, a phantom memory of Atheron’s grip and the way my own power felt—impossible, like staring into the sun and daring it to blink first.

The air in the corridor is filled with the stink of ozone and burnt stone. The golden cracks in the floor don’t disappear. If anything they spread further, spidering out in all directions. I flex my fingers, watching the light flicker and fade, then drop my hands to my sides. The adrenaline drains slowly, my body shivering with fear and anticipation.

That’s when the Overseer arrives. Not through a door or around the corner, but straight down from the ceiling. Its body slides through the surface as though solid matter is only a suggestion. It lands silently, robes settling with a surreal weightlessness. Its face is smooth glass, refracting the light so that my own image stares back at me, warped and doubled.

The body is wrong in small ways: joints bending too far, head tilting more than it should, arms folding and unfolding without purpose. I know immediately who is watching.

It stands a breath from me, head cocked. There is no malice, not even curiosity. Only cold, detached observation.

“The Rites require sacrifice.”

The voice is monotone, the usual unyielding resonance of the Overseers.

But midway through the sentence, the tone slips. A second voice runs beneath the first—ancient and mournful, blurred with centuries of fatigue. The next words echo, layered and vibrant, as though the walls themselves are speaking.

“You are so close, my child.”

The words are the Mother Shard’s, but she sounds tired. Desperate, even.

I brace for pain, for violence, but nothing happens. The Overseer just stands there, waiting, as if I’m meant to answer.

I swallow, my throat dry. “What does it matter who wins or dies?” I ask, and my voice is steadier than I feel.

The glass face splits for a second, showing a thousand versions of my own features, each contorted with a different emotion.

“The Light has never made it this far,” she says. “I feared you were all broken.”

That isn’t an answer.