Page 116 of The Blood Rites

For some reason, I’m stuck on Vaelis’ lie. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

Alaris turns, hurling a fist at the air. The force of it sends a bench crashing into the wall, splitting it in two.

“Vaelis made me do it,” Alaris continues, quieter now. “He held Rask’s arms, and I—” He raises two fingers and looks down the length of his arm, pointing them in a perfect replica of what he did for Fen. He shudders, but not from the cold. “The thing is,” he says, looking at his hands, disgusted. “It was easy. I blew a hole in his brain and walked away. Simple as that.”

I don’t know what to do with that.

“You should be glad,” he says.

Because I was on Rask’s hit list.

Alaris laughs again, this time trembling. “The Mother Shard calls us her Champions, but I think a better word would be executioners.”

Silence. The words hang in the stale air of the Dome, turning the sweat and Mana into something rancid.

I want to ask if he’s okay, but the answer is obvious, and I can’t bring myself to voice the words.

He knows what I’m thinking, though. “You want to know if I’m okay,” he says. “Of course you do.” He chuckles softly at that, the first honest sound he’s made. “I’m not. But I will be.” He squares his jaw, composing himself the way I used to at the barracks before inspection. “At least it was quick for Rask. Even monsters deserve a quick end.”

We stand in the wreckage of the Dome, with nothing left to say. A faint whistle sings through the air like an arrow fired beside my ear.

Then the lights dim.

A chill seeps into the Dome, and the wind stills as if suffocated. Mana hums through the air, thickening it. The benches and weapon racks start to piece themselves back together, a thousand splinters of wood flying back into place as if time is running backwards.

I hear a low vibration, like the building itself is shivering. An Overseer glides through the nearest wall, trailing glittering blue vapour that warps the light. It hovers, a foot off the floor, its face a blank mirror.

Alaris’ voice is a whisper. “What does it want?”

The Overseer stops in front of us, perfectly motionless.

It speaks—but with a borrowed voice. The ancient, straining voice of the Mother Shard. “To lose all my Earth Champions brings me such sorrow.” The sound carves a line through my thoughts. “They should be much stronger, but they break like all matter. Such sorrow... such—sorrow.”

Alaris snorts. “Sorrow? For Rask? He was a murderer, and worse.” His tone curdles, ugly and venomous. “You must know that the Earth Dominion only sends criminals. The people they want to get rid of.”

I didn't know that. It makes sense, of course, but I don’t interrupt.

The Overseer’s head tilts, the movement impossibly smooth. “All my Champions are worthy,” she intones. “Sorrow does not discriminate. My Veins must be fed.” Her voice becomes hollow, almost apologetic. “There is more sorrow to come. All my Champions must face death. There is honour in that. Show me your strength.”

“Honour?” Alaris spits. “I’ll give you something to mourn.”

He whips a blade of wind at the Overseer—faster than I can process it, sharp enough to peel flesh from bone. The attack doesn't even reach its target. The air in front of the Overseer thickens, folding back on itself. The wind blade shatters with a howl like shearing metal.

The Overseer does not react. Instead, its mirrored mask ripples, like a droplet striking still water. A ring of rose-coloured light pulses from the Overseer’s core. I stagger as the force of it hits me, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. Alaris throws his hands over his ears, dropping to his knees. His eyes bulge, fingers clawing at the sides of his head.

“Observe,” the Overseer says, but it’s not a command.

The Mana around us swells. Alaris tries to fight back, but his Mana doesn’t surface—it’s crushed back inside him before it can take shape. He tries to gasp but can’t. Blood drips from his nose, beading at his ears.

It hurts to watch. I try to channel a shield to defend him, but the moment I summon even a flicker, it’s snuffed out by whatever force runs through the Overseer. My hand trembles. Everything in me screams to do something, but I can’t move.

The Overseer glides forward, looming over Alaris. A spectral limb emerges from the shifting black cloak. It rests a skeletal hand on the crown of Alaris’ head, and Alaris goes limp. His nose and ears stream blood, but he doesn’t move.

“Observe,” it repeats—softer this time. Almost kind. The room distorts, rippling like heat over stone. The sound vanishes. For a heartbeat there is nothing but that hand and the certainty that if it willed it, the Overseer could turn us to dust with a thought.

The hand withdraws, and with it the suffocating pressure. Alaris slumps to the floor, gasping and coughing blood onto the polished stone. I sink to my knees, not from pain, but from shock.

The Overseer looks at me, its mask reflecting my face back at me, distorted and full of fear.