Blood magic isn't like other magic. It doesn't flow from nature or ancestry. It consumes. It corrupts. It breaks bodies and twists minds.
Most practitioners die screaming, their veins bursting as power floods in too fast. But I'm not most practitioners. I've survived by being smarter, ruthless. She thinks because she has the Morrigan's power that she’s untouchable.
Power can be taken.
Outside my window, I spot a flash of fire—Nester practicing in the courtyard. His flames dance between his fingers, bright and pure. He's powerful. Young. Perfect.
The plan forms like ice crystals spreading across glass.
He'll come if I call. They always do.
***
I drag my rug from the center of the room, revealing the dark wooden floorboards. The space feels larger, emptier. Better for what comes next.
"The blood must flow in five directions," I read aloud, fingertips tracing the faded diagrams. "North for strength, south for control, east for vision, west for transformation, and center for the conduit's soul."
I gather five black candles from my dresser drawer, arranging them in the cardinal positions. My hands work methodically while my mind races with possibilities. When this is done, I'll be stronger than Brigid could ever dream. The shadow rebels who flock to her will kneel before me instead. I remove a small, jeweled dagger from its velvet sheath. The blade catches the light, ancient markings etched along its silver surface.
"Perfect symmetry," I whisper, marking the points on the floor with chalk. Precise measurements matter. Blood magic demands perfection.
"Laria? Are you in there?" Eira's soft voice filters through the wood.
I freeze, chalk hovering above the floor. Fucking owl girl. "Not now, Eira. I'm busy."
"I need to talk to you," she persists.
What a waste of time getting close to her was. She knew nothing, at least nothing she’d tell me. Now she’s like an irritating insect that won’t leave me alone. I’ll have to deal with her when I’ve finished with Brigid. I told her too much when I was trying to get her on my side.
"Come back tomorrow."
"I know what you took from the archives, Laria."
Shit. How does she know? I rise slowly, dusting chalk from my hands. I stride to the door and yank it open, startling her. "You have two minutes."
Eira stands in the hall. Those too-big eyes dart past me, trying to see into my room.
"I saw you," she whispers, hands fidgeting with the sleeve of her sweater. "In the archives. I saw what you took."
I lean against the doorframe, blocking her view. "So what if I did?"
She shifts her weight from one foot to another. "The blood ritual isn't worth it, Laria. My grandmother used to tell stories about vampires who tried it. None of them remained... themselves afterward."
"Touching that you're concerned." I smile, showing just enough fang to make her step back. "I didn't realize we were such close friends."
"We're not. But that doesn't mean—"
"That you should mind your own business? Exactly." My patience wears thin. Behind me, the chalk markings call out, demanding completion. Time is running short. "If you're done, I have things to do."
"Is this about Brigid?" Her voice trembles but holds steady.
"I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Let's not pretend you care about her. You betrayed her faster than anyone."
Eira's face pales. "That's not—"
"Fair? True? Does it matter?" I glance back at my room, at the half-finished ritual circle. "The Council failed. I won't."
"Please," she says, reaching for my arm. "The texts call it 'soul-splitting magic' for a reason. It takes more than blood—it takes pieces of who you are."
