Page 45 of The Blood Rites

Her footsteps recede, leaving me.

I bury my face into the wall, covering my ears with my hands to block out all noise.

It’s not the humiliation from the fight. I’m used to getting hurt. I had just hoped to make it through without drawing attention to myself.

If anyone knew that my light could harm—

If I become a target, what then?

Winning this thing sounds too close to murder. Once was enough, and that was an accident. A man turned to ash on the wind. I never want to experience it again.

I want to survive. To protect Marissa. Callen too, if I can. I’ll sacrifice myself if I have to. That seems a noble way to die.

The knot in my stomach refuses to loosen. I keep thinking of Kael’s face, the way he looks at me as though he could peel back all my layers and steal my secrets.

There is another rap at the door.

“I said go away, Marissa,” I snap.

But the next knock is a single hard bang, not a question but an announcement: I am here and you will answer. I want to pretend I’m asleep, or dead—anywhere but here—but I have already spoken out.

The door handle turns regardless.

My head snaps towards the door, eyes landing on the lock. Undone. Redundant. Too late, I remember I never bolted it.

The door opens, and Kael steps in with the slow certainty of someone who already knows he won’t be refused.

He closes the door behind him with unnatural quiet. He stands there, eyes raking over my dishevelled form. Any hint of our fight is already gone. He looks vividly alive, the flecks of dried blood across his shirt only making him look wilder.

Neither of us speaks. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, but it will not serve as armour for what’s to come.

Kael’s voice is low and strained. Whatever amusement he carried earlier is gone.

“What are you?” he asks, but there is no hint of amusement. It sounds like a demand—a warning.

I shake my head, eyes fixed on the wall. “I told you already. I’m nothing. I can’t do anyt—” My tongue trips, unable to dance around the lie.

“Horseshit,” he snaps. “I felt it. I felt something back there. I can feel it still. You are not powerless, so why are you pretending?”

“I’m not pretending,” I say, but the lie is brittle and he knows it.

The golden cracks seem to glow brighter in the dimness, impossible to ignore.

He steps forward, feet soundless, but I feel every shift of his weight as though his steps are shaking the ground beneath me. “I don’t believe you. Why pretend?”

Because I don’t want any part of this.

Truthfully, I miss the numbness of my lonely routine.

I had a plan. Become a Warden and be free of the bands. Unsuppressed. Invisible.

But I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I turn to face him. I try to glare him into retreat, but I’m struggling to stay upright.

“I don’t owe you anything," I snap, but the anger deserts me halfway through. “Just leave me alone.”

He doesn't move. Instead, he begins to look around the room with a cold, calculating interest. His eyes catch on the golden crack on the ceiling before jumping to the matching one on the floor. He cranes his neck, studying it.