Page 186 of The Blood Rites

The Overseer’s form flickers out of existence for a moment, like the world can’t hold it.

“The Light Dominion is blinded by its own sun. The Shadow is lost in eternal night. The others rot from within. The world survives because of what you give it.”

The Overseer’s body vibrates slightly, as if containing the voice costs it something.

I take a shaky step forward.

“You could stop this,” I say. “You have the power. I feel it everywhere.”

The hum in the walls grows louder, so deep it rattles my ribs.

“This is not punishment,” she says, her voice softening into a tragic lull. “This is devotion. This is how we heal. You must finish it, my child.”

Her child. The word makes my stomach turn. It hurts to hear it.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to become a monster for you.”

She laughs, so soft I barely register it. “You already have, my Light. But it is not your fault. All my children fight for me.”

She says it like it’s fate. Like I don’t have a choice.

The Overseer lifts one hand and gestures down the hall. “Tomorrow, the count is completed.”

I want to scream. To shatter the Overseer with my bare hands. To make her see that I will not be her weapon. But I’ve seen how that ends. All I can do is plant my feet and meet the gaze of my own fractured reflection.

“I do hope it’s you, my Light. Don’t ruin this now.”

Her voice is so intimate it feels like she is whispering right behind my ear.

It makes no sense. She’s interfering, choosing favourites. This can’t be right.

The Overseer’s body trembles, the glass face flickering with images—Marissa’s smile, Nyxen’s shadowed face, Morwen’s tears—all gone, all feeding the world.

The light in the walls dims, the pink hue fading to warm white.

As the Overseer begins to sink into the floor, the Mother Shard’s voice loses its mask of authority, softening into something private, almost confessional.

“You remind me of someone.”

Then the Overseer is gone.

Just me, the corridor, and a silence no one is left to break.

I return to my room without thinking about it, the way a wounded animal finds the dark corner it knows best. Kael is sitting on the edge of my bed, shirt gone, head down, picking at the knot in his bootlace with determined irritation.

The dark tattoos across his shoulders and arms seem to swirl in the dim light, tracing down his ribs and weaving around places where old injuries have warped the flesh. The scars don’t ruin the tattoos—they fold them into something more beautiful, more honest.

I stop in the doorway and watch him. The golden cracks on the ceiling cast thin stripes of light across his body, so every movement flickers with life and shadow. He doesn’t notice me right away. When he does, he startles, then covers it by rolling his eyes and smirking.

“You know, it’s polite to knock.”

I scoff. “This is my room.”

He grins, but it’s not the predatory look he gives to others. It’s smaller somehow. Real. I sit down next to him, close but not touching.

He looks at me, then looks away. The silence is thick.

“Where did you go?” he asks.