Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
The sacrifice.
“The sacrificed child lives until their Ink magic fully blooms,” she says. “Then we strip out the core imprint and bind it into the suppression grid, where it remains long after the body dies.”
“The grid,” I say. “You mean the rune network.”
“I mean the suppression grid.”
Of course she does. Somebody sat down years ago and chose a name that sounds like drainage.
“The imprint becomes both the power source and the living key. Each generation renews the binding.” She recites it like a family recipe. “Most sacrifices simply Fade once the extraction leaves them empty. As I said, my brother lasted six months.”
Something almost real crosses her face. Grief, perhaps. Or irritation that grief still exists.
“He was gentle. Unsuitable in almost every way. I loved him anyway.” She studies me, her expression caught somewhere between contempt and confusion. “But you had to be difficult.”
I stare at her.
“You—” The word arrives on its own, and nothing will follow it.
I try again. “You. Sacrifice. People.”
I hear myself say it, and it still means nothing.
“You watched them take your brother apart, and you let it happen, and then you had two daughters of your own and you chose.”
Me.
She chose me.
Something has gone wrong with my breathing.
“But… but you are my mother.”
“One child each generation to control an entire city of dangerous, powerful citizens. Unchecked magic is a liability. Around fourteen hundred years ago, the people revolted. The suppression grid solved the problem.”
Behind my back, I ever so carefully work my wrists inside the cuffs. No give. The chair does not shift either; whoever bolted it down was thorough.
The door is three strides away and warded heavily enough that I can feel it from the chair. Two guards outside, at a minimum.
No version of this ends with me walking out of this room.
“It is Arcane Magic—blood, place and inheritance bound into a single living system. It siphons their magic, keeps them manageable and maintains order. The government converted a temporary control measure into a permanent system.”
Arcane Magic.
Her voice takes on the polished cadence of a lecture delivered many times before.
“Our bloodline’s Ink magic is the authority written into it—the only magic the suppression grid recognises as permitted to access and command the system.
Our greatest scholars oversaw it for centuries.
It worked flawlessly”—she lifts her chin—“until you.”
The word drops like a stone.
“For years, we believed the problem was degradation. Old runes. Bad maintenance. Custodians too complacent to notice when a line began to fray.” A muscle twitches in her jaw.
“Six months ago, the repair reports changed. Every correction made the strain worse. Every anchor we reinforced drew harder than it should. The power entering the suppression grid did not match what it was built to contain.”
She looks at me as though I have done something personally vulgar.
“That was when we understood. The fault was not in the grid. It was in the source. Your core imprint was far stronger than we anticipated.”
Her pale eyes narrow. “Rather than settle quietly into the suppression grid, it spread through it. Worse, your body began to regenerate what we had taken, and the system never stopped drawing from you. For thirty-two years, it has fed from a source that refuses to empty. The suppression grid grew stronger. Drew harder. Became unstable.”
She gives a small, joyless laugh. “The accelerating Fade. The exploding grid points. That is your fault, Elmo.”
“So, you are telling me,” I say slowly, “that my magic has been fuelling the rune netw—” I stop myself.
“The suppression grid. And that for more than a millennium, our family has stripped magic from the people of Elyrion and murdered its own children, and that the Fade is killing thousands in the Districts because my magic was too strong to contain.”
“Precisely.” She sounds almost relieved that I have finally caught up.
Nausea rolls through me.
“Your sister has not yet had a child, but she is betrothed. Once Vivian produces an heir and a viable sacrifice, we only need sixteen to twenty years. Then we shall have a replacement, and everything will stabilise. Until then, we must manage.” She pauses.
“And you refuse to die. That is the problem.”
She glances at my father.
He remains silent, a portrait brought to life, his expression carefully blank.
My mother turns back to me. “Even that apartment did not drain you quickly enough. We assigned you accommodation built against one of the strongest feeder lines from a primary grid point. We were certain the concentrated draw would finish you quickly.”
Her mouth tightens. “Yet there you are, alive, popping up and causing trouble. An absolute nightmare. And it is, I should make clear, entirely your fault.” Her voice rises on the final words.
I lean back in the chair. The cuffs clink against the metal frame. “My fault? Our local government is running an illegal siphon across an entire city, yet I am to blame because I refused to die conveniently?”
She says nothing.
“You should have read your own rule book more closely, Mother. Surely there was documentation on what happens when the sacrifice is too strong.”
“You were under control,” she says, her tone clipped. “We thought you were long dead.”
I was never under control.
And the pieces slot into place with terrible precision.
Why I was never given the same opportunities as Vivian. Why they allowed me to drift, never pushed me, never prepared me for anything. Why no one cared that I skipped training for the Games.
“The Games,” I say aloud.
She huffs. “Are you finally getting there?”
“They’re a mechanism,” I say cautiously, though my voice strengthens with every word. “The winners are chosen in advance. Powerful commoners are eliminated. I was entered because a missing daughter would complicate matters, but a failed one was merely unfortunate.”
“Useful,” my mother corrects. “A failed daughter gave the Districts someone to blame. All those promised rations, placements and civic improvements were lost because poor little Elenora Morris could not live up to her bloodline. People are far less likely to question a system when they are busy hating the person it tells them ruined everything.” She smiles.
“A parent can only do so much. You failed spectacularly, Elmo, and even that did not finish you.”
The weight of it bears down on me.
Beneath that weight, something lifts.
I was a child with no tools, no preparation and no support because none of it was ever meant for me.
I did not fail the Immortal Games.
They were engineered for me to fail.
I was a power source. A sacrifice. It was not my fault.
It was never my fault.
“Where does the magic go once the suppression grid siphons it?”
“The Immortal Zone. Every drop of it. It holds the platform in the air, powers the spells and wards, keeps the water clean, the food fresh, and all the gardens and public spaces green. Every year, the Immortal families grow more powerful. Whatever we don’t use remains in the grid.”
“Remains there.”
“Where else would it go?”
Is this woman serious, or has the excess magic fried her mind?
“Where else would it go? You’ve spent fourteen hundred years stealing magic, drawing more than you expend and leaving the difference trapped inside ancient runes. It’s full. It has been full for a long time, and now it’s splitting open in the middle of populated streets.” Heat claws up my throat.
She smooths her dress. “Always so dramatic. What we wanted was a compliant workforce. People too drained to revolt, simply doing their jobs and keeping their heads down.”
“And Vivian’s betrothed?” I say evenly. “He doesn’t know any of this.”
“Of course he doesn’t. He will fall in line, as your father did. And you are going to stop whatever you think is developing between the two of you and leave him alone. He belongs to your sister.”
Her gaze sharpens. “The match is exceptional. His magic is stronger than anything we’ve seen in generations and perfectly balanced. The man is almost as talented as a witch.”
Witch.
She speaks it with reverence. Nobody has used that word seriously in thousands of years. These days it is an honorific, handed to the most gifted as a comparison with something half legendary.
“With his bloodline and ours, the next sacrifice will be ready, and this entire mess will resolve itself.”
She tilts her head, studying my face. “I can see you don’t like that.”
I say nothing.
“No matter.” She turns towards my father. “We must do what the suppression grid could not. Finish this properly. We will sever the living feedback. As long as you remain alive, the connection can reform. The next sacrifice can then be used to rebalance what remains.”
“You’re going to murder me, Mother.”
“Oh, no. I’m not getting my hands dirty.” She flicks her fingers dismissively. “That’s what staff are for.”
They move towards the door.
I look at my father. “And you agree, Father? That I should die for this family?”
He married into the bloodline.
He stares at the floor.
For one impossible second, his hand shifts towards me.
Then Mother looks at him, and he folds back into stillness.
“He’ll do whatever he’s told,” my mother says as she steers him through the doorway. “Won’t you, Roger?”
She pauses on the threshold. “The severance chamber is being prepared. In a couple of hours, the connection between you and the imprint inside the suppression grid will be cut. After that, you’ll take your last breaths.” Her smile is thin and bloodless. “Try not to make a scene.”
The door slams.