Chapter 14 #3
The professor holds his arms out to his sides in a grand gesture, slowly turning to address both units in the audience.
“These cadets will become your brothers and sisters in arms. They will suffer alongside you as well as succeed by your side. Your loss is their loss. Their gain is your gain. This is the moment that they offer their sacrifice and loyalty to the military and General Porter.”
I press my lips into a thin line.
I was wondering when we’d be hearing his name. The infamous five-star general who runs Salaryan with an iron fist. I’ve heard that his family has been doing so for centuries. In this land, he is judge, jury, and executioner. However, in his eyes, he’s more comparable to an untouchable god.
I’m pretty sure he still bleeds. So, more of a narcissist than a god, really.
The only person worse than him whom I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet on several occasions is his right-hand man, Prime Minister Henderson.
A greasy, scheming, and wholly untrustworthy specimen.
Hopefully, we’re spared from them making an appearance today.
It’s unlikely, as cadets at the academy fall pretty low on the priorities of high-ranking officials. Especially those two.
Finally, the professor turns around to address us, his face partially obscured and only the bottom half of his jawline visible.
Thin lips atop a weak chin are the only indication we have of his appearance.
Depending on his next actions, you can bet your ass that I’ll be looking at every single one of my professor’s lower jaws in the near future.
“I will call you up one by one for you to perform your blood offering. Once everyone has joined their blood into the goblet, we will move on to the next crucial step.”
He steps to the side of the pillar, making room for a first-year to join.
I throw up a silent prayer of gratitude that we sat in the middle. It gives me a chance to prepare for exactly what we’re offering. They haven’t been very forthcoming about that part.
“We’ll start in the middle and work our way down one side, then the other,” he says as he points at me.
Of course we’re starting in the middle.
Why wouldn’t we start in the middle?
He folds his hands in front of his stomach as he waits for me to rise. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hesitating.
I stand and slowly walk toward him. I don’t look at my friends, though, afraid of what I’ll see on their faces. My steps are deliberate as I walk and stop directly across from him on the other side of the goblet.
This is where I’ll stand and bleed for tradition.
I cautiously peer down.
It’s empty, and the morbid part of my brain wonders how much blood it would take to fill it. The serpent remains still, ready to strike.
I take a deep breath as he raises his hand, gesturing for mine.
Slowly, I bring it up and set it into his waiting palm.
His firm, cool grip is a stark contrast to my damp, sweaty one.
His other hand reaches into his deep cloak pocket and pulls out a crimson-colored dagger about the size of my forearm.
The lethal tip hovers above my upturned wrist. Dark blue veins stand out against my pale skin, and I fear they act as a beacon for his weapon.
It’s as if they are offering themselves as tribute.
No one speaks.
The scrape of a boot against the stone floor reaches my ears, a stark contrast to the otherwise silent hall. I can feel a low, pulsing strain running through the students in the pews—part reverence, part hunger—as all eyes are fixed on me.
I bite down on the inside of my lip, forcing myself to hold still and not show any signs of the fear permeating through my entire body. I doubt anyone wants to be willingly cut open, but add an audience and it becomes exponentially more terrifying, for some reason.
It’s a vulnerable feeling of being violated for entertainment.
The professor’s lips pull into a sinister smile right before he starts speaking in a language I don’t recognize or understand.
The words are rapid and harsh. The tip of the knife presses into my wrist, but it has yet to draw any blood.
He continues speaking in the foreign language, while squeezing my wrist in his beefy palm.
My breaths come out in rapid bursts as if the very air I’m breathing is painful, but I don’t pull my wrist away, and I don’t squirm.
My stomach churns.
A drop of sweat slides down my back.
I feel everyone staring at me.
He continues to speak in that eerie dialect, but it’s starting to sound more like a chant than unknown words at this point. If evil had a sound, this would be it.
The tip of the knife presses deeper, digging into the soft flesh and bringing forth a reluctant wince from my lips. A drop of blood appears, and I know without a doubt his pupils are fully blown under his hood.
This doesn’t feel like a ceremony. It feels like an execution.
Every muscle in my body tightens as I clench my teeth to keep from crying out in pain. I won’t give him that. Fuck him and every single person who thought I’d never make it this far. I made it. And I’ll be damned if I give them anything more to take from me.
Revulsion coats my spine as his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, almost as if he’s getting extreme satisfaction from the pain being inflicted.
He probably is.
Sick fuck.
Without removing the pressure from his grip, he makes a long gash and swiftly flips my wrist over, allowing the blood to flow into the bottom of the basin. The drops hit the metal like a farewell to my independence.
My teeth sink into my lip as he digs his fingers into the sides of the cut, encouraging more blood to be produced. As if I’m not already giving enough.
The chanting continues as my eyes grow heavy, and dizziness washes over me.
Between the loss of blood, the diminishing adrenaline rush, and the odd verbiage he’s spewing, I’m feeling weak.
And so, so tired. I let my eyes flutter closed.
If I can just rest for a minute, the pain will subside, and I’ll feel better. I can regain my bearings.
I hear the rustle of a cloak. “It’s too soon for that. You’ll miss what’s to come,” the professor whispers in a foreboding tone.
The coolness of damp fabric being draped over my fresh injury forces me to pry my eyes open, the heaviness making it difficult. Something sweet and spicy hits my nostrils.
Yarrow.
A favorite of healers to treat battle wounds.
Without further ado, he pushes me back toward my seat and calls up the next willing participant.
Finnley’s hood is pushed back just enough that I can see the anger marking his features as he walks by, along with something else in his stormy eyes.
I’m too mentally tapped to pinpoint what, but it’s there.
There’s more to these unknown words being spoken than they’re letting on. I feel as if I’ve been drugged. My head lolls for a moment, vision swimming in slow motion. It’s as if I’m witnessing the remainder of the ceremony through haze-filled eyes.
I struggle to watch Finnley go through the ritual, but time isn’t moving correctly anymore.
One second, he’s walking toward the goblet, I blink, and he’s returning to his seat.
I drag my uncooperative eyes to him to offer support in any way I can, even if it’s an understanding look, but he’s staring straight ahead.
I accept at the moment that we’re all fucked. I give up on trying to communicate with him. Instead, I preserve my remaining energy.
The ritual concludes in what seems like rapid succession after everyone has provided their offering.
I’m sure the goblet is now close to overflowing with our “lifeblood and consent.” The robbed fiend turns back toward the audience, his form swaying in my vision.
My fingers twitch uselessly, and my limbs feel boneless.
“We have our offering. Now the removals begin,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “At attention!” he orders in a stern voice while clapping his hands in front of his face. “Weapons ready.”
Weapons ready?
The fuck?
I vigorously rub my eyes, trying to clear them, but everything is still so fuzzy.
Finnley attempts to stand but loses his balance and crashes back into his chair. Muffled curses fly out of his mouth, but he doesn’t attempt to stand again.
My eyes dart to a hooded Veil walking closer to the dais as the rest spread out through the hall in strict military formation. The Noctryns appear to walk more casually toward random places.
I follow the Veil’s approach with weary eyes as he makes his way toward us. The surrounding candlelight bleeds into gold halos, and spots dance in my vision. His steps are predatory, and he’s heading directly toward me. His head is bowed, and his hood is pulled low enough to maintain anonymity.
A throwing axe rests in his hand.
Without thinking, I reach for Finnley. The moment my fingers brush against the side of his palm, an axe lands directly at my feet. I jerk my hand back and look in the direction it came from. The Veil’s head is tilted to the side in a menacing way as if daring me to reach for his hand again.
I reach for Finnley’s hand again because fuck him.
One second, I have a grip on his pinky finger, and the next, I’m being hauled to my feet, spun around, and my arms pinned securely behind my back. The room immediately spins on its axis, causing my stomach to do somersaults.
Through the nausea and dizziness, my eyes land on a Noctryn directly in the back. Shadows swirl around him in violent tendrils. It appears as if he takes a step forward but halts when the professor’s austere voice rings out again.
“Cadets, as the voicebounds come down the line, you will drink from their chalice. Be greedy. Don’t leave a drop,” he says in the same foreboding tone he’s carried throughout the ceremony. The directions wash over me in their abruptness. I want to refuse, but I’m borderline delirious.