Naomi #3
She swallows hard, her voice breaking like fragile glass. “My brother is sick… so sick. We can’t afford the—”
Duke Whitlock interrupts, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Lord Blaine, are you re—”
“Give me a minute,” I snap, venomously. The room stills, all eyes on me. I glare at Duke Whitlock. “The Commandments say nothing about being inhumane,” I add coldly.
He says nothing, and my eyes shift back to her. “Continue,” I urge, my hands still cradling her tear-streaked face.
Her words tumble out in a rush, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear. “We can’t afford the bills any other way.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” The number slams into me like a tidal wave. Fourteen. Just a year older than Naomi. My stomach churns, but I don’t show it. This is what sacrifices are—children, girls, boys, people of all ages, signed away by desperation. There are no limits here. No mercy.
“Did your parents sign you up?” My voice is sharp now, harsher than I intended.
“They don’t know I’m here.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a scream.
The weight of her words settles over me like a lead shroud.
This girl is going to die, and no one will know where she is.
No grave, no goodbye, no legacy. Just…nothing.
The Corinthium ensures that. Their efficiency is terrifying.
The room is silent, every breath held, every eye watching me. I have no more questions for her. Nothing more to say that will change our destiny.
“Lord Blaine, are you ready to proceed?” Duke Whitlock’s voice cuts through the stillness, yet again.
“Yes,” I say, steadily, betraying none of the storm inside me.
He steps forward, carrying The Oculus Dagger on its blood-red pillow, a macabre offering in its own right.
The dagger gleams under the chandelier’s cold light, its blade adorned with sapphires the color of a midnight sea.
The handle is a masterpiece of intricate engravings—ancient symbols intertwined with swirling patterns that seem to pulse with a life of their own.
It’s beautiful in a way that mocks the horror it’s about to deliver.
She begins to tremble, her body shaking violently like a brittle leaf caught in a gale. She knows. She knows exactly what’s coming. I hold her gaze as her clear blue eyes fill with tears. When I remove my hand from her face to reach for the dagger, her sobs break free.
“I can’t do this. Please, I can’t!” Her voice rises in desperation, cracking like shattered glass. “I change my mind!” She tries to pull away, her body twisting in panic as she tries to run.
She doesn’t get far. Whitlock’s hand snaps out, grabbing her arm with a vice-like grip. His other hand swings fast, striking her across the face with a sharp crack. Her head snaps to the side, the sound echoing in the silence.
“You ungrateful wretch!” he spits, his voice dripping with venom as he pulls her inches from his face. “Your brother’s bills are already paid for. You should be honored—”
“HEY!” My voice roars above his, silencing him instantly. The room shifts, every pair of eyes turning to me.
“She is my sacrifice. Mine.” My voice is cold. “You do not get to brutalize her,” I growl, the words laced with a barely restrained fury. “You do not get to diminish my Rite.”
He knows I’m right. The weight of my words hangs heavy in the air as Duke Whitlock glares at her, his lips curling with restrained rage. He has no choice. Anyone who dares to diminish another’s Rite faces exile—a commandment not even he can defy.
The tension in the room crackles like electricity, but I don’t back down. Duke Whitlock finally lowers his gaze with a tight-lipped nod.
“Then I suggest you keep her in hand,” he snarls, shoving her roughly back toward me.
I don’t spare him a glance, catching her before she falls to the ground, my grip firm but not cruel as her sobs wrack her fragile frame.
I wish I could tell her it will be okay, but I’m not a liar. Tonight, I’m her executioner.
“Are you okay?” I ask her softly, my voice dropping to something just above a whisper.
“Yes… He’s right. I should be more grateful,” she says, her voice trembling.
I feel a sharp pang in my chest, the hypocrisy of this whole ritual stabbing deeper than the dagger ever could. My gaze hardens as I glance at Duke Whitlock, my scowl carving into him like stone. “No one should be grateful to be slaughtered,” I say, my voice cutting through the room like ice.
She flinches but doesn’t respond. I see it in her eyes—the flicker of hesitation, the spark of a question she’s too afraid to ask. But then, she straightens. There’s a fire in her, defiant and unyielding, and it reminds me so much of my sister that I feel something deep within me fracture.
“I’m ready,” she says, her voice steady now.
I nod. “It will be quick,” I promise, the lie settling heavily on my tongue. “Like going to sleep.”
“May we proceed?” Duke Whitlock presses, impatient.
I don’t answer him. Instead, I dip my chin in a silent nod, my eyes never leaving hers. He thrusts the pillow toward me again, the dagger resting on its blood-red fabric like a serpent waiting to strike. I take it, it's cold weight sinking into my palm, a grim reminder of what’s to come.
Her trembling lips part as if she’s about to speak, but she doesn’t.
I guide her toward the stone altar in the center of the room, lifting her onto it gently, laying her flat.
Attendants step in silently, securing her in place as onlookers pack into the seats in front of me and off to the sides—my parents seated front and center.
When the attendants finish, dipping their heads low before retreating, the opening words of the ritual come easily—like a prayer I’ve known my entire life: “Per ferrum surgimus, per ferrum cadimus. Cinis ad cinerem, pulvis ad pulverem.” By the sword we rise, by the sword we fall. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her, and after a brief moment of hesitation, her eyelids flutter shut. With a swift motion, I bring the blade down, severing her left carotid artery.
I thought I’d prepared myself for this.
Weeks of research—poring over anatomy, learning how to end a life quickly and painlessly. But nothing could have readied me for the way her eyes snapped open—wide and frozen in a stunned expression that I’ll never be able to forget.
Sky blue eyes that will haunt me until the day I take my last breath.
She tries to clutch at her throat, her small hands desperate to break free and stop the flow of blood spilling in thick, hot rivulets onto the cold stone slab.
Her blood is everywhere—warm and sticky, painting my hands, staining my clothes.
Because, despite myself, I try to help her.
It flows endlessly, like a river of carnage.
Her once-pristine white gown is sullied now, crimson soaking the silk until it’s unrecognizable as her blood flows down a drain built into the altar.
“I take it back!” I yell, my eyes widening as the ground beneath me starts to rumble, and then it hits me.
A white-hot pain sears through my body, blinding and all-consuming. It’s as if lightning is tearing through my veins, igniting every nerve, every cell. My body convulses violently, jerking against the weight of an unseen force.
Our God.
I’ve seen them inhabit others before, watched the transformation from the outside. But this? This is nothing like I imagined. It’s not blissful oblivion. There’s no blackout, no mercy.
No, my consciousness remains tethered to my flesh, raw and exposed, forced to endure the agony of becoming their host. The God of The Corinthium takes root within me, and I am no longer just myself.
I am theirs.
There’s no escaping it. The force coils within me, stripping away what little control I have left. My legs straighten, my spine locks, and the corners of my lips tug into a smirk I don’t command.
“Yes or no?”
The question rolls out of me—deceptively simple yet heavy with consequence.
If I trade the last fragile remnants of my morality to fortify my family’s Rite, we’d be sealed in blood as one of the legacy families.
We’d no longer be looked upon as outsiders, but as rightful heirs to everything The Corinthium has to offer, not just common members.
Our family was established three years ago by invitation, while bloodlines like the Whitlocks have been established for many generations.
Since then, my father has been working his ass off to prove this family’s worth.
Needless to say, everything rides on this moment. And our God feels it, knows it.
If I say yes, the cost will be unimaginable. The weight of it presses against my chest, suffocating. I don’t even know what horrors await—what kind of mutilation I’ll be forced to inflict, what desecration will be required to satisfy the unholy demands of this Rite.
The room is heavy with silence, save for the faint rustle of fabric as the others shift uncomfortably. Their eyes bore into me, burning against my skin, but their unease is palpable. Through my blurred vision, I see their faces—wary, almost frightened.
I must look like a beast to them.
“Yes or no?”
The words roll off my lip again, though my answer is unspoken. Only our God hears it, reverberating in the dark recesses of my soul.
Yes.
The response is met with a low, guttural growl that claws its way out of my throat. The sound isn’t mine; it’s something far darker, far more ancient.
“Magnificent,” the voice snarls, rich with cruel satisfaction. It’s my voice, but not my own.
The women in the room scatter like leaves in a violent wind, summoned away from the nightmare that is about to unfold. They are spared this sight, this terror.