Page 5 of The Blood Rites

For half a breath, my body forgets where I am. It’s not him; he’s dead. This Guardian is taller, broader, wearing ceremonial armour instead of patrol leathers, with double sunbursts gleaming over his chest.

Still, my wrist throbs beneath my sleeve.

“Welcome, Luceris,” the Blessed says, sweetness sliding over each word. “Thank you for your willing attendance. The Mother Shard looks lovingly upon you.”

I force myself to bow my head. “Thank you,” I manage, but the words taste foul.

The Guardian gestures for me to move forward. “This way.” His gaze lingers—not long enough for anyone else to notice, but just long enough.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck, and I lower my eyes before he can decide there is something worth seeing in them. Men like him always look too closely: at my mouth, my face, the way I fold myself smaller beneath their attention.

They’re the first to call people unnatural. But they’re never the first to look away.

I follow him through the archway and into the shadow beyond.

The air changes as soon as we pass through the arch. It becomes cooler and quieter.

The noise of the crowd dulls behind us, swallowed by stone and shadow. The light shifts too, less blinding here, caught and softened by high walls that rise too far to see the tops of.

We’re funnelled forward without being told to move. No one stops. No one tries to run. A line forms before I even realise I’m standing in it.

White cloth is passed from one pair of hands to another—tunics and trousers, all folded and identical. No one speaks as they receive them. I don’t either, afraid that even a moment’s hesitation will draw attention.

The fabric is rougher than it looks, sticking slightly to my skin where my sweat hasn’t dried properly. I turn my back to the others, changing quickly and keeping my movements small, sleeves down so the bands are covered.

A Guardian walks along the line, his eyes drifting over us as he observes. Further down the line, someone struggles with their ties. The Guardian stops beside them and, with measured movements, ties it himself before stepping back.

I keep my hands steady and face forward again.

The red paint comes next. There is a bowl filled with thick, dark pigment that looks almost black until it catches the light.

“Forward.”

I step up when it’s my turn.

The Guardian tilts my chin up with two fingers, cold metal against my skin. I don’t fight it. He drags a brush across my face from forehead to chin in a single diagonal stroke. It burns faintly, colder than I expected. I don’t move until he lets go.

“Next.”

I step aside.

A girl to my left stares at her hands as if she doesn’t recognise them anymore. Another boy keeps touching his wrist, pressing at the band like he’s trying to feel his Mana through it.

No one meets anyone else’s eyes as we’re moved again.

The sound of the drums filters in from ahead—faster than the bell, sharper, something that gets under the skin and stays there. It sets a rhythm, and my pulse falls into it. I hate it.

The space opens out gradually as we’re guided forward, the walls giving way to light again. The platform is ahead. I can’t see all of it yet, but I don’t need to—I’ve seen enough Choosing ceremonies. Every year, it’s the same: the same lines, the same marks, the same waiting.

The line slows, stops, then starts again; each step seems deliberate, as if something is counting us. I keep my gaze low, tracking boots and hems until the edge of the platform comes into view.

I don’t look up. I can’t bear to. Not yet.

The drums don’t stop.

They just get louder.

The platform opens out in front of us, and the light hits hard enough that for a moment I can’t see properly—just white stone, gold flare, and too many bodies packed too close together.