Page 6 of The Blood Rites

The rhythm of the drums is sharper here, working its way into my chest whether I want it to or not.

We’re guided into position without being told, the Offerings forming several lines that straighten under the weight of expectation. I keep my head down at first, watching boots scrape against the stone, fingers flexing and fidgeting, the small, safe details that don’t look back. But the centre of the circle pulls at my attention anyway.

The Blessed stand in a wide ring, their robes catching and bending the light so it shifts constantly, gold sliding over gold until it’s hard to focus on any one of them. At the far end, raised above them all, the dais cuts a clean line into the brightness.

The Crown sits there. He’s too still.

Even at this distance, something about him feels... off. The light fractures against the metal of his crown and scatters across his face in a way that makes it difficult to fix him in place, like if I looked too long, I’d start to lose the shape of him. I drag my gaze away before it can settle, directing it back to the circle as someone steps forward into the centre.

Sera Vayne. The High Blessed.

No one says her name, but the shift in the air is enough. Everyone seems to angle towards her, attention tightening without anyone meaning to.

She doesn’t wear a veil. Light clings to her instead, caught in the many chains and rings that drape her body so that even the smallest movement sends it flickering across her skin.

She raises her arms slowly.

The drums continue, but something else builds beneath them—a low, almost imperceptible hum that threads through the air until I can feel it rather than hear it. My skin tightens, the hairs along my arms rising as people around me lean forward.

Her voice comes when the tension has nowhere else to go.

“We are called here today,” she says, and it carries easily, settling in my skull, “to offer ourselves to the Mother Shard who sustains us.”

Offer ourselves. The words slide over the crowd like something sweet. No one reacts openly, but I can feel it—the way bodies go still, as if we’ve all been pulled a fraction closer together.

Sera’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Under the light of our Crown, we begin the Choosing.”

The drums pick up, faster now, and my pulse stumbles trying to follow.

I glance at the Crown again, and his vacant eyes give me chills.

“Three will be chosen."

The lines of Offerings shift, tension passing through us in small, helpless movements. My stomach tightens.

“Seventeen will fall,” she says, almost gently.

This time the reaction is harder to hide. A breath catches somewhere to my left. Someone sways, then steadies.

“And one will claim the power of the Crown.”

The words settle slowly, like something sinking beneath the surface. I don’t let myself follow the thought all the way through.

“Today, weakness will be tested. Those who offer nothing to the Dominion,” Sera goes on, her voice gentle, “will give themselves to it.”

Weakness. The word lands harder than it should.

A girl near me—too young, surely—exhales sharply, the paint splitting against her skin as she blinks away tears. Another makes a sound they try to swallow.

I keep still. Don’t react—don’t stand out.

The hum builds again, threading through the drums until the two sounds blur together. I can feel it now, not just around me but inside, a faint pressure beneath my skin answering the hum in the air. It wants to come to the surface. I push it down hard. Not now. Not here.

Sera’s voice softens, but somehow carries further, threading through the space until it feels like it’s sitting just behind my eyes.

“It is no small burden,” she says, her gaze settling briefly on us before sliding away again, “to bear the light of a Dominion such as ours.”

The words are slow and calculated.