They came for her at dawn.
Four guards in ceremonial black. No words. No weapons. Just gloves stained with dried blood and eyes that did not blink.
Elara didn't resist.
She dressed herself in silence.
Braided her hair with trembling fingers.
And followed them into the dark.
The Hall of Blood sat beneath the main cathedral, carved into the stone foundation of the mountain. No light reached it save for the crimson-glass lanterns strung along the arched ceiling. The floor was a single slab of etched obsidian, veined with red quartz that pulsed faintly—alive.
A ritual circle waited at its center.
Outlined in ash.
Rimmed in silver.
A low platform of bone and blackwood stood beyond it—Kael's throne for this ceremony, not his crown.
When Elara stepped into the hall, the crowd stood already gathered: elders, nobles, priests.
And Kael.
Seated.
Expression unreadable.
She searched for warmth in his gaze.
Found none.
One of the priests stepped forward.
"By law and blood, we call the claimed to trial."
Elara's hands curled into fists.
"What trial?"
"Of bond. Of flesh. Of fire."
She didn't move.
Then they handed her the robe.
She froze.
It was white.
Once.
Now stained with rust-red blotches along the hem and sleeves. Stiff with time.
Whispers stirred the crowd.
"It belonged to the last queen," someone murmured.
"She died in it," said another.
Elara held the robe in shaking hands.
Put it on.
It clung like regret.
The priest gestured toward the circle.
"Step in."
Elara did.
Bare feet touched the sigils.
They burned.
Not fire.
Not heat.
Recognition.
The circle hissed to life.
Red light surged through the runes.
The crowd murmured.
The priest raised a ceremonial blade.
"Elara Voss," he intoned. "You are marked. You are chosen. But the bond must still answer."
He held the blade toward her.
"Offer your blood."
She took the knife.
Pressed it to her palm.
Hesitated.
Then cut.
Blood fell onto the circle.
The runes drank it.
At first, nothing happened.
Then—
A crack.
The floor split beneath her.
A second circle formed.
A spiral.
A trap.
She couldn't move.
Her breath hitched.
Pain lanced up her spine.
The mark on her collarbone flared.
The runes were reading her blood.
Testing it.
Judging it.
And it was failing.
"Elara!" someone called.
She turned.
Kael had risen.
But hadn't moved.
His hands gripped the edge of his throne.
His knuckles white.
"Do something," she whispered.
He didn't.
The priest chanted louder.
The circle pulsed.
Elara gasped.
The robe clung to her limbs.
Her veins burned.
Her knees buckled.
Still Kael didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't stop them.
She fell.
The floor greeted her like a coffin.
When her vision began to darken, she heard it.
A growl.
Low.
Deadly.
Then a roar.
Kael.
The throne shattered behind him as he lunged forward.
The circle flared—trying to repel him.
He walked through it.
Ripped through it.
The silver scorched his skin.
He didn't stop.
He reached her.
Lifted her from the floor.
Blood soaked her front.
His chest.
The robe.
The runes flickered.
Then died.
The priest screamed.
Kael turned on them.
Fangs bared.
Eyes glowing.
"She is mine," he roared. "And she bleeds for no one's judgment but her own."
He carried her from the circle.
The crowd parted like sea from fire.
Outside, in the temple courtyard, he laid her on stone steps and knelt beside her.
"Elara," he whispered. "Look at me."
She blinked.
Saw only red.
"Why… didn't you stop them?"
"I couldn't," he said. "It would've invalidated the rite."
"But you did."
"Yes," he whispered. "Because they were killing you."
Elara reached for him.
Touched his blood-streaked face.
"You should've done it sooner."
Kael closed his eyes.
"I didn't want them to say I saved you out of love."
She smiled faintly.
"You did."
"I did."
Inside, the ritual circle still smoked.
Its failure echoed through the council chambers like thunder.
But Elara's body in Kael's arms said what the flames could not:
Power isn't given.It's bled for.And taken.