Page 11 of The Blood Rites

The Mother Shard seems to answer the crowd. Power sweeps outwards in an arc of petal-pink light, passing over us like warmth over water.

My breath catches, and an itch under my skin rises to meet it.

The hum inside me answers before I can bury it. It presses upwards, eager and bright, slipping towards the surface like it recognises her.

Like she recognises me.

I grip my own wrist hard enough to hurt.

Stop. Not here.

The Blessed who chose me said I had no signature. No Mana at all. That is what I need to be. Empty and weak. Harmless.

It’s a lie I can use to survive.

I breathe through my nose, slow and careful, coaxing the light back down into whatever dark place I have kept it all these years.

The platform begins to descend.

The beacons remain above us, burning against the sky. I don’t look at them again.

By the time we return to the plaza floor, my skin feels too tight and my wrists ache beneath the bands.

They will be removed soon. Then the bridge. Then whatever waits across the water.

Until then, I must remain unremarkable.

Invisible.

My wrists ache from the bands.

The Blessed assigned to me takes my hands without asking. Their fingers are pale and thin, the nails too clean, the touch too soft. The bands open with a sound I feel more than hear, metal releasing from skin that has known its weight for eighteen years.

They drop onto a velvet-lined tray. The thud is quiet, but it feels enormous.

My wrists look strange without them. Raw and exposed. The welts beneath are purpled and raised, angry where the metal has lived too long.

The Blessed does not let go right away. Instead, their thumb brushes over the marks. A caress disguised as inspection.

I force myself not to pull back.

“You may proceed,” they say at last, releasing me with a flick of their fingers. “Do not indulge in misguided ideas of courage, young man. The light poses no danger.”

Their veil tilts slightly. “And from what I witnessed during the Choosing, neither do you.”

I lower my head and slip by them, clenching my jaw.

The words burn more than the paint.

Callen steps forward next. When his bands fall, his scarred hands flex once, then curl into fists before he forces them open again. I can understand that.

Marissa is last. She holds her arms out like they no longer belong to her, tears shining constantly now, though she makes no sound.

When it’s done, the Guardians herd us from the platform. They aren’t rough—they don’t need to be.

The crowd parts as we descend from Crown Plaza, and the relief of open air is enough to make me dizzy. No more platform. No more faces staring at me. No more Crown sitting above us like something hollowed out and left behind.

But my wrists are bare, and every brush of fabric against them feels dangerous. Every breath could loosen what I am trying to hold down. I keep my hands close to my sides and walk.