Page 31 of The Blood Rites

Kael lowers his hand slowly, his expression remaining calm, almost bored, but something dangerous moves beneath it now.

The Fireborn’s jaw tightens. “Stay out of this.”

Kael completely ignores the warning, his gaze drifting briefly towards me before returning to the Fireborn.

“You will not harm this one, Atheron.”

The entire Dome seems to still around the words.

Kael’s mouth curves into the faintest hint of a smile.

“He’s mine.”

Six

His?

The word curdles something inside me. How dare he speak as though I am something that can be claimed, possessed—a prize dragged from the jaws of this place before the Blood Rites have even begun.

Around us, the Dome has gone quieter. Not silent—never silent. The Overseers still hum their endless litany beneath everything else, low and droning like insects trapped inside the walls.

Bright Mother, save us. Let the Veins be fed.

But the attention shifts all the same. I feel it moving through the Dome like smoke.

The Fireborn laughs first.

“Spoken like a true Shadowborn,” Atheron says, his voice rich with amusement. “Claiming ownership where there is none to be had.” His eyes drift lazily between us. “Do you not know where you are, boy?”

Kael finally looks away from me. The shift in his attention should feel like relief, but, somehow, it doesn’t.

“I know exactly where I am,” he replies coolly. “And I know exactly who I’m dealing with.” His gaze sharpens. “Atheron Visconti.”

The name lands heavily across the Dome, and the reaction ripples outwards almost instantly. Conversations falter. Several Offerings subtly retreat towards the edges of the chamber as tension tightens in the air between the two.

Visconti.

The name is infamous even within the Light Dominion. It belongs to the ruling bloodline of the Fire Dominion—ruthless, powerful, and whispered about whenever the Blood Rites are discussed. Somehow, a Fireborn victor almost always emerges from the carnage.

I study Atheron again, unease tightening my chest.

If he truly is one of them, then perhaps those stories were not exaggerated after all.

The thought of willingly choosing to come here staggers me.

Atheron smiles slowly, clearly enjoying the effect his name has had.

“I see my reputation precedes me.” His attention returns to Kael. “But your identity has hardly gone unnoticed either. Kael Noctaryn.” His mouth curls faintly. “Son of the Shadow Crown himself.”

A prince. The revelation strikes me harder than it should.

I look at Kael differently then. The confidence. The command in his voice. The way the other Shadowborn instinctively defer to him.

Of course.

Atheron takes another step forward, all easy confidence and sharpened cruelty. “Tell me, Prince,” he drawls, “did your father send you here to die, or did you volunteer?”

Something flashes behind Kael’s expression so quickly I nearly miss it. “You know nothing about me, Fireborn.”