Page 184 of The Blood Rites

I don’t have a plan. I’m just walking.

Halfway down a long hall, Atheron steps out of the shadows, silent and pristine. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

He blocks the corridor with the ease of someone who has never once had to hurry.

“Trouble sleeping?” he says, and his voice is velvet. Vibrating at a frequency that could lull or kill.

I stop moving, letting my hands go slack at my sides.

He takes a few steps closer, not predatory, not even really focused. Just moving through the world as if everything in it is for him.

“It’s not uncommon,” he says. “To break, this far in.”

I don’t know what he means.

His eyes roam my body, the way a collector appraises a trophy, not with lust, but with the deep hunger of someone who covets more than he needs.

He sighs. “The Prince is unstable. You know that, yes?”

I don’t reply. If I open my mouth, I’ll say something that will give him a reason to hurt me.

“He’s burned out, and now his bodyguards are dead too.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You’ll be next.”

Still, I say nothing.

Atheron tilts his head, expression almost sad.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? How you’re not the same as you were at the start? He’s making you weak.”

He says it like an old friend, or a teacher who only wants what’s best for you.

“If you have any hope of surviving, you’ll need to end him yourself,” he says. “Spare him the suffering.”

He pushes off the wall and steps closer, so smooth it’s like there was no movement at all. I don’t mean to, but I back up until my shoulder blades meet the wall.

He stops, standing too close. He doesn't touch me right away. Just lets the anticipation do the work instead.

“You’re not a killer,” he says. There is a fondness to his voice. “But you will be. The Mother Shard will see to that. She wants Champions. She makes monsters to see what she can get them to do.”

He raises a hand—slowly, almost caressing the air—and places it on my throat.

Not hard. Just there.

His hand is hot, a faint orange glow at the edges of his fingers. The heat crawls up my jaw and across my cheek. He doesn't squeeze. But I know he wants to.

“She would enjoy watching you kill him, you know.”

A thin flicker of fire slides up from his wrist, licking my chin before vanishing.

I am perfectly, terribly still.

My mind fractures. Old instincts surge—go limp, let it happen, survive by disappearing within yourself.

I almost let go. I almost vanish into that part of me that doesn’t feel pain, the part that would rather be invisible than fight.

But I don’t.

Marissa died in my arms.