Page 25 of The Blood Rites

“Yes,” it says again.

“This one.”

I wake with the echo of the dream still lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.

For a few seconds I lie completely still, staring at the ceiling above me while my heartbeat gradually settles back into something human. The room is silent apart from the faint hum that seems to permeate every inch of this place. Even here, behind closed doors, I can still feel her.

What are you? The question lingers in my head like a bruise.

I drag myself upright slowly. The blanket I threw across the floor during the night still hides most of the damage, though the golden fractures remain visible, peeking out beneath the fabric. The sight of them turns my stomach.

The room itself feels strangely artificial now that I’m properly awake. Last night I barely noticed anything beyond panic and exhaustion, but in the pale morning light the chamber resembles something carefully constructed rather than genuinely lived in. A large bed dominates one wall beside a polished desk and shelves lined with books that look far older than they are. Candles burn steadily despite no one tending them. Decorative ornaments sit arranged with unnatural precision across every surface.

When I pull one of the books free and open it, every page inside is blank.

Of course it is—nothing here feels real; even the silence seems staged.

I dress slowly, forcing myself to focus on practical things instead of the dream. The uniform left for me fits too perfectly, snowy white leather reinforced with pale silver metal that catches the light whenever I move. It looks less like armour and more like ceremony. Something designed to display what I am before I even open my mouth.

Lightborn and harmless, safe to overlook. At least, that’s what people expect.

I tug the sleeves at my wrist out of habit and try not to think about the way the Mother Shard’s voice had wrapped itself around my thoughts last night.

In dream, we may commune.

A chill works its way slowly down my spine.

A small roll of parchment rests beside the door as though it had always been waiting for me. I hesitate before picking it up, half-expecting the paper itself to hum beneath my fingers. The wax seal cracks cleanly apart.

Inside is a list of names.

All eighteen Offerings, neatly separated beneath the symbols of their Dominions.

My eyes move instinctively towards the Shadowborn first.

Nyxen Varr.

Vaelis Dreth.

Kael Noctaryn.

The names lodge somewhere in my chest, unwelcome and immediate.

He is one of them.

Against my own better judgement, I want the boy haunting both my thoughts and my dreams to have a name.

I fold the parchment quickly and shove it into my pocket before I can linger on it any longer. I pull open the door and walk directly into a solid wall of muscle.

The impact jolts through me hard enough that I stumble backwards in surprise.

Firm hands grab me before I can fall, and for one dizzying second, all I see are black eyes.

Him again.

He towers over me in the narrow corridor, close enough now that I can make out every detail of his face. Dark hair falls loosely across his forehead, but there’s nothing careless about him. Every line is deliberate, controlled, dangerous. Less like a person and more like the idea of one sharpened into a weapon.

“My apologies,” I blurt automatically.