Page 168 of The Blood Rites

“I long for your death,” he croons, mouth wet with it, as he draws nearer.

The feeling is mutual.

I turn back to the dummy and grab another staff. Maybe if I ignore him, he will disappear.

The world is not that kind.

He circles me, slow and predatory, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s almost sad,” he purrs. “You keep surviving, but you’ve got no one left. Well—almost no one.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

Atheron’s lips curl. “I want to see the abomination up close. The one who can turn light into a weapon. The one who refuses to die.”

He steps closer, close enough for me to smell the smoke on his skin.

“Is that all I am?” I ask.

He grins, all teeth. “You’re an insult to nature. An aberration. Though I should thank you for making this interesting.”

I try to get around him, but he blocks me. His hand flashes out. A whip of fire wraps around my wrist, and pain snaps through me, searing and immediate. A sound tears out of me as I pull away, but the fire holds, eating through skin. The Mother Shard’s healing magic traps me there, flesh burning and healing on a loop.

I grit my teeth and throw the strongest right hook I can muster. It glances off his jaw as he twists away.

Atheron’s face softens, almost gentle. He licks the blood from the corner of his mouth where I caught him. “So much bite for one so soft,” he says. His eyes glint with something wicked. “I want to know what you taste like.”

The fire drags my wrist to his mouth, his lips barely grazing the burn. The flames give way to revulsion.

He lets me go, and I stumble back. The blistering, burnt flesh begins to renew itself, fresh layers growing back like a painting burning in reverse. Red, white and yellow are replaced by dark honey brown.

“I’d love to see what you could become,” Atheron says. He almost sounds mournful. “Unfortunately, you will have to die. I have a legacy to continue, after all.”

“You’re vile,” I spit.

“Your little friend said something similar, if I recall.”

Rage rises hot in my throat, but there’s no use fighting here. Any pain would only be temporary, and he deserves much worse.

“It was rather inspiring, I thought. The way she defended herself.” He inspects his fingernails as if he’s bored. “Perhaps we should do some practising of our own. Hmm?”

He shoves me to the floor, and I scramble back, palms scraping on the stone. He follows, hands wreathed in flame.

A chill seeps through my bones as the room darkens. Not slowly—a single, violent pulse, as if someone ripped the light out by the roots.

A shadow flickers, then takes shape: Kael.

This is not the boy who held me while I grieved. He is something much worse. The thing the other Offerings were afraid of.

Kael’s eyes are blacker than I have ever seen them. His voice is a sound I’ve never heard before—an empty, echoing rasp that fills the whole Dome.

“Touch him again,” he says, “and there won’t be enough of you left to put back together.”

Atheron doesn’t flinch. Instead, his flames surge, illuminating the dark. “So, you want to play again, Prince?” he sneers. “You could have been a match for me, you know, but you’re soft. Your father would be ashamed.”

“There’s no one to help you this time,” Kael says. “One of your minions is already dead.”

Atheron huffs. “Minions, perhaps. But Maleiros was a dutiful soldier. And Serraith was more than capable of handling your two ‘bodyguards’.”

Kael’s eyes seem to pulse. He steps between me and Atheron, the air frosting over around him.