Page 167 of The Blood Rites

He doesn't answer for a long time.

“I think she wants a show,” he says. His grip tightens slightly. “And I think she sees us as a problem.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. “What do you mean?”

He considers it. “The dreams,” he says, eventually. “I think she is trying to poison you against me, to make you doubt me.”

That makes me laugh, a thin, brittle sound. “She’s got a sick sense of humour.”

He smiles, and for a second, it’s almost real. The silence that follows is different. Not empty, but full of things unsaid.

“What about the Overseers?” I ask.

“What about them?”

“They overpowered Alaris in a heartbeat,” I say. “I should have told you. I saw. If they’re fragments of her—”

“Then they’re not untouchable,” Kael cuts in. He exhales slowly. “And if they’re not untouchable... neither are the rules of the Blood Rites. Look what you did to your room.”

I can only stare at him. He can’t possibly think I’m the solution. It’s just a few cracks.

The walls hum, low and irritated. Not louder—different. Like something in this place doesn’t like what we’re saying. Like we’re skirting too close to a truth she doesn’t want spoken.

“You think they can be killed?” I ask.

“I think anything can be killed.”

Could it be true? Marissa would have agreed. She had rebellion racing through her veins.

I smile. “She was so brave in the end,” I say. “Marissa, I mean.”

He sighs. “You are too, you know.”

I roll my eyes. “No. I’m not.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against my hair. “Yes,” he says, voice warm. “You are.”

We sit there, in the hush of the dead, together. The pulse of the Mother Shard vibrates all around us, as if she’s listening, waiting for me to crack.

But I won’t. Not this time.

“If she wants a show,” I murmur, thinking of Marissa—of how hard she fought, even at the end. “Maybe we should give her one she doesn’t expect.”

The Dome is empty when I arrive. The silence is a presence all its own, pressing against my ears, thinning the air. Only the monotonous hum of the Mother Shard’s Mana breaks it. Every footstep echoes, the sound chasing itself around the high ceiling.

I’m alone, but I can’t stop looking over my shoulder.

I take a quarterstaff from the rack. My hands are unsteady, my grip too tight. I move to the centre, trying to remember some drills: wide stance, pivot, strike, reset. Marissa was the last person I saw using one. It’s not my favourite weapon—it doesn’t suit me, and I prefer having one hand free—but I’ll use it today. To keep her nearby. To feel the ghost of her in the room with me.

I imagine Kael behind me, his shadow watching over me in silent judgement. I’m not graceful. Not today. I batter the target dummy, each hit wilder than the last, until the drills collapse into something ugly. I don’t care about form. I just want to break something.

The staff splinters after a while, so I toss the broken pieces to the floor, where they roll to a stop. The two halves vibrate, and for a second, I think they might knit themselves back together.

“You don’t belong here.”

I spin.

Atheron stands in the doorway, whole and unscathed, his missing leg reattached—or regrown. Who knows? He wears the same arrogant smile as always, but his eyes burn with something new. A wild joy. The certainty that I am the last mouse in a cage, and he is about to enjoy the kill.