Page 39 of The Blood Rites

Marissa’s voice chimes in, a macabre echo, giggling, “Extinguish him. Extinguish him.”

Lyssandra’s voice echoes from behind me, whispering in my ear, “Painfully. Painfully.”

The word echoes until it loses meaning.

I’m back in the bed, but the stone walls now crawl with cracked pink veins that pulsate with a golden light. The bed is a living thing, the blanket scratching at my skin, crawling its way into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I try to claw at it, but my fingers have no bones. They flail—limp and useless.

The forms of men lean over me, faceless and uniformed, gold and black igniting the memory of every rancid touch and every moment of helplessness I’ve ever felt. Their hands move everywhere at once—gripping, stroking, restraining—until I cannot tell where pain stops and humiliation begins. I arch, bucking wildly, desperate for freedom but unwillingly participating.

Lyssandra’s voice returns, colder than before: “So hungry to please. So desperate to be understood. But what are you?”

I sob, but the sound is a maniacal cackle of laughter.

“What are you?” The voice cackles back.

My body betrays me, finally convulsing against my will as ribbons of golden light burst from me. The hands restrain me as Lyssandra’s form absorbs the golden ribbons, drinking up the light, feeding from me. Her enormous eyes widen, smiling as she delights in my shame.

“Special. Special. Special,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft, almost trustworthy, but her smirk betrays her. “Just a broken thing for me to use.”

The air rushes all around me, and time seems to collapse as I find myself in the Dome. I’m on my knees, and the sound of Kael’s laughter rolls around me. I look up, and he stands above me, his boot pressing against my chest, his black eyes boring into my soul. He brings his face inches from mine, whispering, “What are you?”

I cannot speak. I can only watch as Kael pulls a blade from behind his back and places it against my throat, holding me in place.

The ancient voice of the Mother Shard erupts from Kael’s mouth: “You want to survive? Show me your devotion. Show me your strength. Give yourself to me.”

I feel myself splitting, the light inside me forcing its way out of the prison that is my body. I scream, but the sound distorts and is absorbed into the walls, echoing back at me as broken, cackling laughter.

“What are you?” the voice roars.

“Nothing,” I whisper. “I am nothing.”

The world collapses and the last thing I feel is hundreds of hands dragging me down. Down through the earth, into the hungry darkness, while those enormous glowing eyes gaze at me from above with adoration and cruelty.

Her words follow me down like a lullaby, like a curse:

“This one. Yes. This one.”

I surface from the dark like a drowning man, gasping for air. It takes me a minute to remember where I am—the Embrace, in my assigned room. I’m soaked, every inch of me is covered in sweat. The sheets are glued to my skin, cold and suffocating. My pulse stutters against my ribs.

I haul the sheets from my body, scanning the room for intruders, but the lock is still in place. My breathing won’t settle, and for a long moment I cannot move. My arms and legs feel numb. It takes me another minute to shake myself loose, to remind myself that I am alone. That I am safe. Well—as safe as I can be given my situation.

I drag myself upright and sit on the edge of the bed. The ache from the dream lingers, real as any injury. My throat burns and I swallow back tears. My wrists itch, phantom hands irritating my skin.

I take deep breaths, choking down air, trying to settle the pounding of my heart. The tremors in my hands don’t want to stop.

That’s when I see it: a crack in the ceiling.

It runs above my bed, in a twisted, jagged vein of gold cutting through the grey stone. It would be almost beautiful, if it didn't threaten my very existence.

Panic floods me. Did I do that?

My Mana has never escaped me in sleep before. Never.

The nightmare still clings to me like smoke, pressure lodged beneath my skin. I check my hands, half expecting to see golden lines burned into the flesh. But they’re just hands—shaking and ordinary, calloused from years of swinging a sword.

No heat. No glowing light. Nothing. But the crack stares down at me, unyielding.

I lower my hands and stare back, willing it to mend itself. The silence in the room feels unbearable.