Page 4 of The Blood Rites

I stand from the bench and straighten my jacket, fingers brushing over the cuff without lifting it.

Still covered. Keep it that way.

The bell calls again, closer this time, and I step forward with the others, matching their pace and keeping just enough distance so that no one brushes against me. No one pays me any attention; they rarely do. I’ll pretend I’m exactly what they think I am: weak and forgettable. That’s what they see. That’s what I need them to see.

Cracking the band was never my intention. But I felt it long before then—that hum under my skin, faint and buried. But not gone. Never gone. I’ve just learned not to listen, to keep it quiet, to keep it small, like everything else.

The crowd thickens as we move towards the sound. Voices drop. Shoulders tense, and no one meets anyone else’s eyes.

I keep mine forward.

Don’t think about the bridge. Don’t think about the light. Don’t think about what I did.

Just walk.

Stay small.

Two

A river of bodies moves towards Crown Plaza and I move with it.

There is no space to slow down, no space to turn back. The crowd presses in on every side: sun-warmed shoulders, damp palms, and children clinging too tightly to their mothers’ skirts. Every toll of the bell passes through us like a command.

No one speaks loudly. No one needs to. We all know why we’re here.

The staircase rises ahead, pale stone worn smooth by years of feet climbing towards the same terrible thing. I keep my hands low, sleeves pulled over my wrists and take the steps one at a time.

Don’t touch the band. Don’t check it. Don’t give anyone a reason to look.

Above the plaza, the Alabaster Vein cuts into the sky. It is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. Too bright. Too clean. Each pulse of light spills across the stone, gilding the faces around me until everyone looks holy and half-dead at once.

The Mother Shard loves us. That’s what they say. She protects the Dominions, feeds the Veins, keeps the world from going dark, and once a year, she takes what she is owed.

The bell tolls again. A woman near me flinches and a boy no older than six starts crying. Someone hushes him, but it’s too quick, too sharp.

I continue climbing to the top of the stairs, where the Blessed wait in a line of gold. Veils hide their faces, their robes catching the light until it hurts to look at them directly. Circlets, chains, rings—all of it gleaming. All of it deliberate.

Beautiful things are easier to obey.

My mouth has gone dry by the time I reach the front.

“Your name?” one of them asks.

Their voice is flat, neither cruel nor kind. Somehow, that’s worse.

“Navin,” I say. My throat nearly catches on it. “Luceris Navin.”

The Blessed turns through the sheets of parchment in their hands. Slow enough that my pulse starts counting the seconds.

N.

Navin. It’s there. I know it before their finger even stops.

Of course I’m on the list. Everyone who turns eighteen is on the list.

Willing attendance, they call it. As if the Guardians don’t drag people from cellars and rooftops every year. As if anyone ever truly chooses to stand beneath the Vein and wait to be tested.

The Blessed lifts one hand and a Guardian steps from the shade.