Page 18 of The Blood Rites

The chamber surrounding us is enormous, far larger than should be possible from the outside. Pale marble stretches in every direction beneath soft golden light. Water trickles somewhere nearby. Greenery spills from enormous stone planters, thick with flowers and twisting vines. An ornate fountain dominates the centre of the room, sculpted figures pouring endless streams of water into a pool so clear it almost looks unreal.

It’s beautiful. Too beautiful. Like something designed to make people lower their guard.

Then I realise we aren’t alone. Twelve strangers stand scattered throughout the room, watching us in complete silence.

The other Offerings.

For a few long seconds, nobody moves.

The room feels unnaturally still after the endless humming of the bridge and the ghosts trapped outside. Water spills softly from the fountain at the centre of the chamber, the sound somehow louder in the silence.

Every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on us, and I become painfully aware of how we must look: dust-covered, exhausted, red marks still drying across our faces. Three more frightened sacrifices stumbling through the walls of the Mother Shard like lost children.

The other Offerings are scattered throughout the chamber in loose groups, though none of them look particularly comfortable beside one another. Some sit near the fountain. Others lean against the marble walls or stand half-hidden among the greenery, watching us with open caution.

No one smiles. No one speaks.

Marissa edges closer to me instinctively, close enough now that our sleeves brush together.

Callen notices too. His shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly as his gaze moves slowly around the room, measuring exits, distances, threats.

I find myself doing the same.

The Offerings from the Water Dominion are the easiest to recognise. Their clothing is loose and flowing in shades of pale blue and sea-green, decorated with silver chains and small shells woven into the fabric. They look softer than the others at first glance. That feeling disappears the moment one of them meets my eyes. There is nothing soft in the way he watches me.

The Earthborn stand together near the far wall. Broad shoulders. Thick hands. Clothes in muted browns and deep greens that make them seem almost carved from the stone around them. One woman among them is enormous, taller even than most of the men, with scarred knuckles and a stare that feels heavy enough to pin someone in place.

The Airborn look my age. Thin and pale, wrapped in layered white fabric that hangs loosely from their bodies like strips of cloud.

But it’s the Fireborn who draw the eye first. Maybe that's the intention. They stand near the fountain as though the centre of the room already belongs to them. Metal glints silver-red beneath the light spilling from the ceiling, their clothing structured and deliberate in a way that feels almost military. The two younger men stand bare-chested under their breastplates; each marked with a scarred brand on one shoulder.

The third is older, tall enough that the others seem smaller around him without him needing to do anything at all. His dark auburn hair is tied back loosely from his face, though strands have already fallen free around his jaw. His arms are bare beneath reinforced leather and metal plating, revealing old burns and scars running across sun-bronzed skin. He leans one shoulder casually against the fountain, watching the room with lazy indifference.

I look away quickly.

A movement near the far end of the chamber pulls everyone’s attention towards the crystal wall as another seam opens.

The room stills further. Even the Fireborn straighten slightly.

Shadow spills through the opening before the Offerings do. Not literal shadow. At least, I don’t think so.

The light around the doorway seems to dim strangely as three figures step through into the chamber.

The first is broad-shouldered and severe looking, with close-cropped dark hair and a face carved into sharp, unforgiving angles. His expression is unreadable, almost numb, as his eyes sweep across the room.

The second walks with his head lowered slightly, slender and quiet beside the others, his movements careful in a way that feels practised.

The third—I feel him before I properly see him.

A strange pressure settles low in my chest, sharp enough to steal my breath for half a second. Then he lifts his head.

Everything about him feels wrong. Not unnatural, but worse—intentional.

He is tall, though not as physically imposing as the older Fireborn, built with the lean strength of someone who knows exactly what his body is capable of. His clothes cling closely to him, black layered with deep blue so dark it almost swallows the light around him. His hair falls across his forehead in inky waves that should soften him.

They don’t.

His face is beautiful in a way that feels dangerous. Sharp cheekbones. Pale skin. Pitch-black eyes that settle on people like he’s already decided how easily they would break.