CH- 40

CH- 40
Mireille POV

Power smells like iron and incense.
Or maybe that’s just the Ritual Room.

I trace my finger along the carved sigil at the center of the obsidian altar, smiling at the faint hum beneath my skin. Tonight, this place will not be used for the Academy’s games. Tonight, it belongs to me.

They file in slowly—students who think they’re clever for sneaking out after curfew, who think I’ve invited them here for something as simple as rebellion.

Two of them are already flushed, holding hands, their marks glowing faintly. I’ve seen the way they look at each other in the dining hall, the way their eyes linger just a little too long.
Perfect.

The door closes with a dull thud, sealing us in. The sound reverberates through the chamber, heavy and final, like a heartbeat slowing to its last pulse. The air shifts, thickening with anticipation—or maybe fear. It’s hard to tell which anymore.

I move to the center of the room, letting the black silk of my robe fall open just enough to hint at the skin beneath—a tease, an invitation, or perhaps a warning.

The light from the candles dances across my body, turning the edges of my hair to molten gold, casting my shadow long and sharp against the cold stone floor. I am both predator and priestess here, commanding their attention without effort.

“Tonight,” I say, my voice low but carrying, each word deliberate, slicing through the charged silence like a blade, “we break what they think is unbreakable.”

A ripple moves through the group. Barely visible, but I feel it—the shiver that runs down spines, the quickened breaths, the way their eyes dart between me and the altar at the center of the circle. Some are eager; others hesitate. But none resist. Not yet.

The girls step forward at my beckon—one with hair like midnight, sleek and untouchable, her gaze steady as she watches me with something akin to reverence. The other is all soft gold and trembling lips, fragile and radiant in the flickering candlelight. They’re opposites, these two, bound together by fate or folly—I haven’t decided which.

I motion for the golden one to sit on the altar. She hesitates only briefly before obeying, perching herself on the edge of the cold stone slab. Her hands grip the sides tightly, knuckles whitening as the chill seeps into her skin, deliberately shocking her nerves awake. Good. Fear keeps them sharp.

“Breathe,” I murmur, leaning close enough that my breath ghosts over her throat. My fingers brush her hair back, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She shivers, whether from the touch or the weight of what’s about to happen, I don’t know. Maybe both.

Behind her, the dark-haired girl shifts, her gaze sharpening as she watches. There’s hunger there, raw and unfiltered, masked thinly by feigned detachment. Her breath quickens, betraying her despite her efforts to appear composed. I smile faintly, approvingly. She’ll do well tonight.

I take the knife from my belt—obsidian, honed so fine it almost hums with potential. Its edge gleams wickedly in the candlelight, catching reflections that look like tiny stars trapped within the blade. Without ceremony, I press it to the golden girl’s inner thigh, drawing a shallow cut along the tender flesh.

She gasps, hips twitching instinctively, her body responding even as her mind struggles to process the pain.

Blood wells dark and slow, pooling briefly before trailing downward in thin rivulets. The scent rolls through the room like a wave—metallic and sweet, intoxicating. It fills the space, wrapping around us all like a living thing.

The dark-haired girl licks her lips, her tongue darting out quickly, nervously. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the color of her irises until they’re nearly black. She’s mesmerized, caught somewhere between desire and dread. Perfect.

I nod toward her, my expression unreadable. “Drink. Take her into you.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She drops to her knees between her lover’s thighs, mouth pressing to the wound.

The golden girl moans—soft at first, then louder as the other’s tongue works over the cut, pulling more blood to the surface.

The sound echoes off the stone, a haunting, intimate music.

The other students shift, restless. Some avert their eyes. Others can’t look away.

I step closer, pressing my fingers into the golden girl’s pulse at her throat, feeling the rhythm quicken.

The bond between them is already straining against the Academy’s leash.
Perfect.

I begin the chant—low, in the old tongue. The air in the room thickens, every breath heavy with copper and candle smoke.

The sigil beneath the altar begins to glow faintly, lines of light weaving toward the couple like vines reaching for sunlight.

The dark-haired girl pulls back just enough to murmur something against her lover’s skin, then sinks her fangs in—not to feed, but to anchor the ritual.

The golden girl cries out, fingers clawing at the altar.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Feel it. Let it burn the chains away.”
The magic ripples through them, tugging at the marks on their necks. The symbols shimmer, twist—then break, unbinding.

The air smells electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.

The golden girl sags back, panting. The dark-haired one lifts her head, lips and chin smeared crimson, eyes glowing faintly.

It’s done.
Or so I think.

The golden girl’s breathing changes. Too shallow. Too fast. Her back arches suddenly, eyes snapping open—silver, not gold.

Her mouth opens, but the sound that comes out isn’t a moan.

It’s a laugh.
Low. Wrong.

The dark-haired girl stumbles back, staring. “Mireille—what—?”

I move fast, catching the golden girl’s chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me.
The silver in her gaze is bright enough to hurt.

“Who are you?” I demand.
Her lips curve.

“The beginning,” she says, voice layered like two people speaking at once.

The candles gutter, nearly snuffing out.

The other students press against the walls, murmuring prayers they barely remember.

I don’t pray. I stare at her.
Because in that moment, I know exactly whose eyes those are.

She leans forward, breath cold against my ear.

“Tell Aria… I’ll see her soon.”