Two #2
“Do not reach beyond your place. Do not seek to take upon yourselves that which you are not meant to carry.”
She pauses, and the drums continue, relentless.
“Do your duty,” she says, almost mournful, “to the Mother Shard... and to those who remain.”
Something in my chest tightens. I don’t like the way she says it.
“Give yourself willingly,” Sera finishes, her smile returning, polished and bright, “and trust that your sacrifice sustains us all.”
She lowers her arms. “Let us begin.”
The words don’t echo. They don’t need to. They fall into place like something closing.
The Blessed move as one, the circle tightening as the lines begin to shift. Around us, the other Offerings move with us, each line drawn towards a waiting pair of hands.
Just like that, we’re no longer watching. We’re part of it.
My line moves forward in slow increments, each step bringing me closer to the centre of the circle. The Blessed work without speaking, moving from one candidate to the next, their hands closing around wrists, fingers settling against the metal as if listening for something beneath it.
A girl ahead of me stiffens the moment they touch her.
A flicker of light passes between their hands—brief, sharp enough to make her flinch—a Guardian paints a golden streak across the front of her tunic, then she’s guided away without a word.
No explanation, no resistance. She doesn’t even look back.
The next boy takes longer. The Blessed presses harder, holding him there as if waiting for something to answer them. When nothing does, a Guardian steps forward and paints a thick blue mark across his chest. He nods once, jaw tight, and moves on.
Blue. Further testing. My line shifts again, closing the space between me and the Blessed.
A girl a few paces ahead of me starts shaking before they even reach her.
When they take her wrists, the light comes stronger this time.
The Blessed steps back almost immediately, and the Guardian moves to paint her golden streak with a kind of practiced urgency that makes my stomach turn. Then she’s taken away.
I focus on the ground—boots and stone. Don’t panic. Don’t react.
My hands are damp, so I wipe them against the fabric of my trousers, quick enough that it looks like nothing.
The drums don’t stop. They never stop. My pulse continues to match the rhythm, much faster than it should, as the hum beneath my skin stirs in response, faint and dangerous.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, forcing the feeling down, forcing everything down. Not now.
Bodies move, then stop.
“Next.”
The word lands in front of me, and suddenly there’s nowhere left to look except forward.
I step into the circle.
The Blessed waiting for me is taller than the others, their posture perfectly still. I keep my eyes on their hands as they reach for me, long fingers closing around my wrists, cool and steady against my skin.
For a moment, nothing happens: no light, no flicker. Just their hands and mine.
I feel the pause before I understand it.
They press harder, fingers tightening against the band, and I have the strangest, most disorienting sense that they’re searching for something that isn’t answering. My throat tightens. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to—
They lift my right wrist, angling it towards the light and my pulse spikes.
Don’t—
Their thumb drags slowly along the metal, stopping abruptly when they find the crack.
Everything in me goes still as the Blessed leans closer, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of their features through the veil.
“What is this?” they murmur, low enough that the words don’t carry.
My mouth is dry. “I don’t know,” I say, hearing the lie in my own voice. “It’s always been like that.”
They don’t answer. Their grip tightens instead, thumb pressing into the break in the metal, testing it. Waiting. But there is still no light. No response.
The silence stretches long enough that I start to feel it, the attention shifting, the subtle awareness of the Offerings behind me, of the Blessed around us slowing, noticing.
Then the Blessed steps back slightly and lifts his veil, so he can look at me properly.
His eyes are sharp and searching. For a heartbeat, I’m certain he’s seen everything—that he can see straight through me, past the band, past the skin, into whatever it is that’s been sitting wrong inside me for as long as I can remember.
But his expression doesn’t settle into recognition.
It shifts into something else: confusion.
“You have no signature,” he says at last, voice flat with certainty. “No Mana at all.”
Relief hits so suddenly it almost makes me dizzy. “Yes,” I say quickly—perhaps too quickly—forcing my voice to remain steady. “That’s what I’ve always been told.”
He doesn’t seem convinced, dropping his gaze back to my wrist, thumb tracing the crack again, slower this time.
Light flares—small and contained. But there. I feel it before I see it, that sharp heat under my skin.
The Blessed stills completely, and this time I know he’s noticed. Something changes in his expression—not dramatic, not obvious, but enough to make my stomach drop. He leans in closer, voice lowering further. “The Mother Shard does not favour anomalies.”
The word lands heavy, final enough to close around my throat. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I barely breathe.
After a moment, he releases me. My hands fall back to my sides, numb and unsteady, the absence of his grip almost as jarring as the touch itself.
For a second, nothing happens; then a Guardian steps forward. I don’t see the signal, but I know there was one. He holds a shallow bowl in one hand, a thick brush in the other, the dark red paint catching the light as he lifts it.
My stomach twists. I’ve seen this before. I just never thought it would be me.
The Guardian tilts my chin up with gloved fingers. I catch a distorted glimpse of myself in the mirrored surface of his helmet—pale, tense, already marked once. The brush touches my skin, cold and biting as it drags across my face, cutting over the first line and completing the mark.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
The Guardian steps back and the Blessed looks at me again, something unreadable settling behind his eyes, before he replaces the veil.
“The first is chosen.”
The words carry, not loud, but heavy enough that everyone behind me shifts.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I can feel every eye upon me, every shift in the air around me.
The circle has closed, and I’m at the centre of it.