Page 186 of On Wings of Blood

“What the fuck is this?” I hissed, my voice brittle. “What the hell is going on?”

He moved back towards me, standing at my shoulder as we looked down at the scene below. His hand hovered at my waist, still possessive, but this time I made no move to push him away.

Suddenly, I was too afraid for that.

CHAPTER 44 - BLAKE

It was a good fucking question.

What were they doing?

I’d never actually attended an Adoration Rite. But I hadn’t wanted to let Pendragon know that, lest she feel even more uncertain about staying where she was.

I knew the rite involved a blightborn girl who would freely give an offering of her body and her blood in front of the congregation–now predominantly made up of my uncle’s most loyal followers and the top ranking nobles from each of the four houses.

Afterwards, the girl was promised riches and glory. Her family was well-compensated but she could never return to them. She would spend the rest of her days in the Sanctum, cared for by the votaries of the Bloodmaiden.

At least, that was what I had always thought happened.

Like most of the younger highbloods, we’d only learned about the rite through whispers and rumors. Through overheard bits of information pillaged from our parents and elders.

Now, as I looked down at the blightborn girl slumped over the throne, I knew with certainty that she was dead.

Around the throne, the masked highbloods were rising and pulling their robes back on.

The highblood man stood up, lifting the Bloodmaiden into his arms. Blood still trickled from the fang marks at her throat.

He’d done that. He’d killed her. He’d murdered her for the rite. Was it always this way? Or had something gone horribly wrong?

I was a highblood. I should have known better than to even ask that question.

Limp in his arms, the blightborn girl looked almost peaceful, her pale face framed by the gleam of blood trickling slowly from the puncture marks on her neck.

The crowd of masked highbloods parted as the man walked between them, towards the silver bowl in the center of the courtyard.

Without a word, he reached up with one hand and pulled down the long silver chains that dangled from the ceiling. The links clinked softly as he began to wrap them around the girl’s ankles. Other masked onlookers stepped forward. Together they helped him pull the chains taut, then hoist her body up into the air.

The blightborn girl’s body swung gently above the silver bowl.

A soft pattering sound broke the silence as blood from her throat began to drip into the bowl below.

I stood perfectly still beside Pendragon, my hand still frozen at her waist, staring down at the silver bowl as the blood pooled.

Slowly, the basin began to glow with light.

The energy radiating from it was palpable. Humming through the courtyard like a low and steady pulse.

I realized what must be happening. The blood was powering some sort of enchantment. A powerful one.

Then it clicked into place.

The girl was fuel.

The glow around the bowl grew stronger, illuminating the faces of the masked highbloods standing around it.

My jaw tightened as I understood. The coercive magic that kept the blightborn compliant, relatively docile. This was how it was achieved.

There was a sickening twist in my gut as I glanced down at Pendragon. She was frozen, her face pale, her expression a mix of shock and horror.

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