The gates of LUEN’THERI

I listen as this stone, crashing upon the heads of my slaves, cracks just as my name once shattered in their mouths. They forgot that I was not a light above their heads—I was the structure of their breath. I stood within and observed. Their fingers knew my signs before they learned to wield weapons. My symbols were not written—they sprouted within their essence from birth. My presence towered, seeping into obsidian, into ether, into every crevice of their subterranean flesh.

When the Goddess created the world, she did not know the concept of an end. All that was born became part of the grand design. But one day, something occurred that even she did not foresee. The Goddess had a son—crafted not like the others but from the very essence of her power, beauty, and dominion. He was light, her pride. Yet he challenged another deity—ancient and cruel. In a battle brimming with wrath and radiance, her son fell. For three days and three nights, the Goddess wailed over his body. She tried to restore his breath, to pour life back into him. But immortality bows to no will—not even hers. So she carried his body to the deepest abyss, where time does not reach and even light falls silent. There, she forged an ethereal vessel—not a tomb, but a hope. She sealed his soul within it, preserving it until the destined moment. Legend says he will return. Not through her womb, but born beyond her flesh, as a sign of a new design, a new era. With this loss, the Goddess first felt what death was. And in that moment, she understood: something—or someone—was needed to intervene when pain and violation grew too great.

Thus, the three were born. They were called Khaël’Draa—three perfect beings, existing since the dawn of time. Their bodies are clad in dark, serpentine scales, tall and strong, with pupil-less eyes and long, forked tongues. Their faces resemble humans’ but hold no warmth. They have long, serpentine tails but can walk when wielding transformative magic. The Khaël’Draa are her instruments. They come when she chooses not to act herself. They do not argue or advise. Their purpose is to fulfill her will. Sometimes they punish, sometimes they grant strength. But most often, they take.

Saël’Hat, the Whisperer of Madness, her son. He instills fear without touch. His voice pierces the mind directly. He does not shout—he whispers. Yet in that whisper, nightmares are born. Saël’Hat reveals visions of your deepest fears. His gaze can drive you mad if you do not look away. Many have lost their sanity hearing him call their names.

Vir’Kaar, the Scourge of Law. He carries no weapon—he is one. His hand can rend flesh so swiftly that pain arrives delayed. People stand upright, unaware they are already bleeding out. Vir’Kaar sees lies and strikes for each—precisely, without mercy. His blows bring not death but realization. His scars never heal.

Dra’Mireh, the Breaker of Souls. He punishes the lustful, especially those who betray the Goddess by consorting with the impure—foreign races or enemies. His punishment is not mere retribution—it is purification. His act resembles coupling but offers no carnal pleasure. It is a cleansing that shatters sin. After it, no lascivious image remains in a woman’s mind—no desire, no yearning. Only silence and weight. Women are permitted pleasure and face no restrictions except for the High Priestess, whose flesh belongs to the temple; indulgence for her is a loss of strength and energy. Sin lies in coupling with those who reject the Goddess and turn to foreign kin. In such cases, punishment is swift, and the name of the transgressor’s lover is carved into her flesh.

They emerge from smoke seeping through cracks in the floor. Their steps are silent. They ask no permission. They simply arrive and do what they must.

The priestesses fear them. Even the eldest, even the most devoted. No one summons them lightly. The Khaël’Draa are not evil—they are loyal enforcers. They come when something is broken to restore order. If the temple’s light suddenly dims and the air grows thick and heavy, they are near.

They appeared before Her. The three sons—Khaël’Draa, beings of ancient will, children of silence and law. Their steps were noiseless, but the earth knew their coming. They knelt at the foot of her throne, their voices sounding as one:

— O Great Mother, we bow before you. We have lingered in shadow, watched, seen all. Long and silently. But the murmurs grow louder. — The priestesses weaken, Mother. Their hearts brim with fear. They whisper: “Why does the punishment endure so long?” The High Priestess Lika dared call to us. And we emerged, for her summons was sincere—though proud. She opened the gates. — Gathered at the extinguished Sapphire Stone, the priestesses beg for mercy. They seek to restore your favor, to bring light back to their temples, to lead the people to glory once more. To be reborn and triumph—in your name. — They plead: grant them magic. And you—remain silent. — They lose strength, Mother. Their hands no longer work miracles. Only one, she who is imprisoned by your will until the end of ages, still holds fire in her blood. She who loves you without reserve. She who does not complain. She is ready to bear your will. — And the priestesses, prostrate, beg for a child—a vessel to carry your magic. A sacred Maiden, a sign of the new era. They have chosen Elara—pure, untainted. She is ready. They prepare the Kharclamerion ritual, the great filling. And they wait. They await your will, Lady. — Speak—and we shall act. Speak—and magic will return.

Their bodies trembled like flames in the wind. Their tails coiled around the Goddess’s armor—not in defiance, but in reverence. The youngest pressed his face to her hands, bowing low, nearly touching her fingers with his brow. The eldest writhed at her knees, his eyes raised in supplication.

— O Mother, — he whispered, — we have not tasted flesh so pure. Never. We have not allowed ourselves even the desire.

The middle one leaned toward her ear, his voice thin as a breath:

— We beseech you, O Great One. Let a sign fall from your lips. We will fulfill all as you command.

— Enough, — declared Great Saënilla, raising her palm. Her voice was sharp, like a thunderclap. The three recoiled, their forked tongues quivering in fear and awe.

— I will grant what they crave, — said the Goddess, rising. Her gown, translucent as woven light, billowed in an unseen wind. The serpents on her head rose, hissing: — The Great Mother has found a way… shhh… The Great Goddess has devised a plan… shhh… O Great One, how wise you are!

The sons froze, coiling around her, their gazes unwavering. Their bodies moved as one, awaiting her will.

— You shall summon Arkhrian and bid him appear before the priestesses. Tell them: I bless their request. Yes, you will fill mortal Elara with my gift. But my design is otherwise. — I wish to know how strong their faith is. How grateful they are for my gifts. And then…

She raised her hand, her eyes blazing with fire.

— Now—begone.

Saën’Illla vanished, dissolving into the air, leaving behind an enigma that left the brothers staring at one another, seeking a clue.

In the eternal depths of Luën’teri, sunlight was unknown. Here reigned a different beauty—cold and mesmerizing. The cave ceilings, studded with thousands of bioluminescent mushrooms, resembled a night sky frozen in stone. Their phosphorescent glow, shimmering in shades of icy blue and venomous green, reflected in the eyes of the rare denizens of these depths, turning their gazes into living jewels.

Ancient roots, black as pitch, entwined the stone arches, forming intricate patterns as if the earth itself sought to recreate magical runes. The air was heavy, saturated with moisture and something else—an unseen energy that made skin prickle and hair stand on end. This was primal magic, permeating every atom of this strange world.

Along a wide road, carved into the mountain’s heart by unknown hands in forgotten times, glided peculiar creatures. Their silhouettes only vaguely resembled humans, their skin encrusted with tiny crystals that sparkled in the fungal light like crystalline armor. In their deathly pale eyes gleamed ancient wisdom—knowledge that could drive any mortal mad.

At the forefront, towering over this subterranean realm, stood the Temple of At’Kassar. Its cyclopean walls, etched with enigmatic bas-reliefs, emitted a faint blue glow. Here, in this sacred place, the will of the Goddess Saën’Illla was most palpable. Today, the temple thrummed with unusual energy—the air within quivered with tension. In the main hall, on a marble circle, the priestesses gathered. Their snow-white hair, like frost in moonlight, cascaded down their backs. Their skin, lightly pearlescent with scales, shimmered with every movement. Eyes the color of the aurora borealis gazed with cold resolve. Their translucent robes, adorned with sacred symbols, swayed to an unseen rhythm.

At the center of this magical circle stood a girl—Elara. The youngest among them, she stood out starkly with her… beauty. Her hair had not yet whitened from magical initiation, and her smooth skin lacked the priestesses’ pearlescent sheen. Only strange marks, resembling birthmarks but clearly artificial, adorned her arms and neck. Despite the visible trembling in her knees, her eyes burned with a fire that silenced even the most seasoned priestesses, compelling them to listen.

High Priestess Lika raised her hands, and the temple filled with a strange chant—sounds felt more by the skin than heard by the ears. Her bare feet stepped deliberately on the cold marble until she reached the circle’s center. The chanting ceased.

— O radiant herald of Saën’Illla… — her voice seemed to emanate not from her throat but from the temple’s very walls.

The priestesses’ prayer hung in the air, thick with the scent of incense and damp stone. The final words—“before your greatness!”—still echoed under the vaults when something inexplicable occurred. The temple’s silence was broken by a faint rustle, like the whisper of ancient parchment. In the center of the marble circle, the air thickened, swirling into a dark mist. It pulsed like a living thing, gradually coalescing into the shape of a human figure.

From the fog emerged a silhouette—tall, powerful, clad in gleaming scales that shifted from coal-black to steely blue. His eyes, yellow with vertical slits like a cave predator’s, radiated a cold, relentless light. Arkhrian, the herald of Saën’Illla, took his first step forward. With each movement, the mist retreated, leaving behind the scent of ancient earth steeped in centuries-old magic.

When he spoke, his voice resounded not only in ears—it vibrated in bones, making even the stone floor tremble.

High Priestess Lika, maintaining ritual dignity but unable to fully conceal her tremor, spoke:

— Arkhrian, mighty herald of the Goddess, we have summoned you in this sacred hour. Tell us, is Elara blessed? Will the strength to lead our people to light and victory be born in her?

The herald paused, his chest rising and falling in a deep sigh. When he spoke again, his words fell like molten metal, heavy and deliberate:

— Saën’Illla reveals her will not at once. But know this: her child carries an ancient fire—not mere light, but the flame of change. Elara is the key, but the key will not unlock the door until the time comes.

Lika inclined her head slightly, her pearlescent nails digging into her palms:

— How do we interpret the signs? How do we discern the Goddess’s will?

Arkhrian began a slow circle, his scales rustling like dry leaves:

— Watch for omens. But remember—power demands sacrifice. Not every path leads to salvation; sometimes it is a path of trials.

Elara’s quiet but firm voice cut through the tense silence with startling clarity:

— I am ready to face the trials. Let fate guide me, even if the path is arduous.

Arkhrian bowed his head in respect. Then, something happened that made even the staunchest priestesses flinch. His chest split open with a crack, like a gate to another world, and from the black void within poured forth creatures—Children of the Goddess, spawned from the deepest darkness. Their forms were fluid, ever-shifting, like shadows cast by flickering flames, yet their movements carried an inexorable, ancient purpose.

The first sensation was a smell—coppery, tinged with something cloyingly sweet, like old blood and blooming night flowers. Then came the sound of scales on marble, so faint it was felt more than heard. When the first shadows brushed her thighs, Elara felt a cold pierce her skin, like thousands of icy needles sinking into her flesh.

The viscous moisture on their scales left burning trails, and a pulsing in her temples began to sync with their strange, staccato breathing. It was not sound but vibration, coursing through bone and flesh, forcing her heart to beat in time with an ancient ritual.

The first crawled forward. Its face was both beautiful and monstrous—high cheekbones covered in pearlescent scales that shimmered in the dim fungal light. Its eyes, entirely black but flecked with golden sparks like stars in a moonless night, gleamed. Its mouth, too wide for a human face, was filled with needle-like teeth that glinted when it smiled—if it could be called a smile. Its tongue—long, forked, and pale pink—slid along her neck, leaving a trail of searing slime. Elara groaned as the liquid seeped into her skin, igniting a strange burn mixed with an unnatural pleasure that spread through her body.

The second coiled around her from behind. Its body was startlingly smooth, cold as marble yet alive, pulsing with hidden strength. Razor-sharp claws sank slowly into her thighs, drawing beads of blood that were instantly absorbed into its scales, leaving only faint wisps of smoke. “Blood for blood,” it whispered, its voice like dry leaves under autumn wind, like the crack of old bones, like the murmur of water in underground caves.

When the third approached, Elara saw its lower body resembled a serpent’s—long, flexible, covered in black, iridescent scales that reflected light in a mesmerizing illusion of motion even when still. It coiled around her legs, and she felt something sharp graze the inside of her thigh—not a cut, not a bite, but something in between. The pain was sharp but quickly gave way to a strange warmth, spreading through her veins like molten honey.

Then it entered her flesh. Slower. Deeper. More painful. The first penetrated her from below, and Elara screamed—but the sound caught in her throat as the second pressed its needle-like teeth to her neck. Its flesh within her was strange—now hard as bone, now liquid as molten metal, shifting in rhythm with her own contractions. Each movement forced her muscles to clench in an inhuman cadence, triggering waves of pain and pleasure that blurred into indistinction.

The second drove its claws deeper into her thighs, and the pain mingled with something else—something warm, pulsing, almost pleasant, like the first rays of sunlight after a long night. Its tongue slid across her chest, leaving burning trails, then closed around her nipple. She felt something inject into her—not poison, but something ancient, clouding her mind, making her blood sing in her veins and her heart beat in a strange rhythm.

The third wrapped its arms around her neck, its fingers—too long, too flexible, tipped with claws—squeezing just enough to make her breath ragged but not stop entirely. Her vision darkened, and then she saw: the Goddess, sleeping in a cocoon of her own wings, vast and majestic; cities on the surface, engulfed in strange flames that consumed light rather than emitted it; herself—but different, with eyes full of stars and a mouth stretched in a silent scream.

When the climax came, it was like falling into an abyss, like lightning striking her spine, like waking from a dream she couldn’t recall. Her body arched unnaturally, fingers digging into the cold stone floor, and a sound tore from her throat—neither human nor beast, something ancient, primal, its echo bouncing off the temple walls as if hundreds of voices joined it.

They retreated as suddenly as they appeared, their forms dissolving, becoming translucent until they slithered back into the cracks in the floor, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and damp stone. Elara remained—trembling, a new mark on her collarbone pulsing in time with the glowing mushrooms, and drops of strange liquid—silvery, viscous, smelling of copper and earth, like the ground before a quake.

The silence that followed was so thick it seemed the temple itself held its breath in anticipation.

The priestesses, with their snow-white hair and pearlescent skin, stood in a circle, watching the ritual with rapt attention. Their eyes glowed in the dim fungal light, reflecting fear and hope, for through this rite, the fate of not only Elara but the entire underworld was decided.

From the center of the ritual circle, where a faint glow still lingered, woven from dust, ash, and magic, he emerged—the herald. An entity whose name none dared speak without permission, for it was older than words, older than the priestesses’ memories. His body shimmered like a blade in twilight: slender, serpentine, elongated, clad in smooth, almost luminous scales that bled into a fabric-like mist. His face blended predatory beauty with inhuman symmetry, and his eyes radiated a wisdom and will so heavy it made one want to kneel—not from fear, but from the realization of one’s own insignificance.

He approached Elara, still kneeling in the circle’s center, like a forgotten victim and triumph in the vortex of power. Her skin was streaked with blood—her own and ritual—and her hair clung to her forehead, shoulders, and back. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving.

Her arms still bore claw marks, her thighs striped, but she did not fall. She uttered no moan. Only her eyes—dulled, glassy, overflowing—held tears, not begging for pity but lingering as an echo of great sorrow and great triumph.

The entity stopped before her and bowed his head—not in submission, but as if recognizing the strength awakened within her. His voice did not sound—it vibrated in the walls, in the blood, in the bones, in the very air:

— May Saën’Illla bless you, child of pain and fire. May your flesh become the altar of her design, and from your womb rise the one who heralds the Great Cycle’s beginning. Through suffering, you have opened the gates. Through darkness, you grant the light of her return.

Elara did not respond. She could barely hold herself upright. Every muscle ached, every breath brought pain. Her knees buckled, but she refused to fall. Her fingers dug into the cold stone beneath her, nails breaking, yet she held on—like a nail in the world’s flesh, like ash in a hearth.

She felt it—the Goddess was here. Her fears, her shame, her torment had become part of something vast and ancient, and even if she did not fully understand, her spirit was already bound to an eternal purpose.

The priestesses stood like stone figures in the fungal light. Their frost-white hair fell over slender shoulders, hands folded in silent ritual repose. None approached. None touched her. Their faces showed neither relief, nor fear, nor joy—only the coldness mirrored in the Goddess’s eyes when she rejects and accepts.

Tears rolled down Elara’s cheeks, slow, one by one, as if the earth itself wept through her. But she did not tremble. She did not beg. She only stared ahead—into the void, the silence, the depths. And in that pain, in that silence, she was no longer merely a maiden. She had become something named not by her name, but by the path her body had opened.

When the entity vanished, dissolving like a heavy memory, the temple sank back into tense silence. But it was different now—not the silence of anticipation, but of fulfillment. The air seemed to solidify, saturated with sweat, blood, and magic, and the ancient, silent walls bore the echo of the rite like a seal stamped on the heart of this place.

Elara remained kneeling. No priestess moved, no one approached to support or console her. Such was their will, the Goddess’s will: those who pass through the gates must rise alone.

It was an act of strength. After endless moments, one of the senior priestesses, tall, with an intricate pattern of runes etched along her temples, stepped back into the shadows and gestured toward an unseen figure behind the columns.

From the darkness emerged a girl—young, with hair like lunar silk, nearly brushing the floor, leaving a faint silvery glow in the air. Her face was calm, almost impassive, but her eyes betrayed a carefully concealed agitation beneath a veil of obedience. She spoke no word. She approached Elara silently, almost inaudibly, knelt before her, and, with the care of one carrying a vessel of water, touched her shoulder.

Elara flinched from the pain but did not pull away. The girl’s hand was warm, and in that warmth was something unlike anything in the temple—not magic, not command, not will. Something simple, alive.

The girl helped Elara stand, and though she swayed, she made no sound. She stood like a banner in a storm—torn but proud.

Together, they walked slowly through the hall, the priestesses averting their gazes, preserving the circle’s order. The path was long, each step resonating with pain in strained muscles, but Elara walked—not because she could, but because she must.

The Citadel of the Priestesses, where they were led, was part of the At’Kassar complex but hidden, deep within. No hymns sounded there, no rituals took place. It was a place of healing, restoration, preparation—a place where silence preceded rebirth.

The girl laid Elara on a marble bed draped with thin fabrics and spoke for the first time, her voice soft but clear:

— Drink. It heals the body.

She offered a tiny goblet filled with a viscous, cloudy liquid smelling of ash, moss, and something sweet, hauntingly familiar. The potion burned her lips but brought warmth as it touched her throat—like a fire kindled within, singeing pain at its edges.

Elara drank without wincing. Then, resting her head on a thin pillow, she finally allowed herself to close her eyes.

Deep within the temple, behind triple obsidian doors hidden even from the initiated, lay the Stone Gallery—the council’s sanctuary. No torches or fungal light illuminated its vaults; the only source was a translucent crystal on a pedestal at the center, pulsing like a living heart, suffused with soft blue radiance.

It was called Kaar’Ensa, “the eye of the silent goddess,” said to have been born in the same moment as Saën’Illla, their souls eternally entwined.

Along the walls, on stone plinths, sat the priestesses—the highest of the high, permitted to bear the Goddess’s will and interpret her signs. Their robes were different—dark as deep water, woven from shadows. Their white hair fell to their knees, threaded with fine strands of symbols, and their faces were concealed by delicate masks with eye slits—a symbol that truth sees but does not speak.

Sister Lika, ancient and commanding, first among equals, raised her hand—a gesture signaling the council’s time had come.

Silence hung in the hall, as if the darkness itself listened to their thoughts.

— Curious, — Sister Irinel broke the silence, seated closest to the crystal. Her voice was soft but laced with anticipation. — None who have undergone the ritual have stood so long. Usually, they collapse at once… or never rise.

— Elara is not one to fall, — replied Sister Tarey, young, her voice trembling slightly. — There’s something in her…

— Perhaps, — Lika agreed, not turning to the speaker. — Or her body is simply well-formed. The flesh can endure more than the soul. But we need what lies within. We must know if she has conceived the child of darkness.

— Can we not sense it? — interjected Sister Meirwyn, the eldest, her voice rasping like sand through time. — After so many centuries, are our spells so weak?

— The child of darkness does not reveal itself to magic. It is not of the living world. Only on the day of the Sapphire Glow will the light speak the truth.

— And if the answer is no? — whispered Irinel. — We won’t wait another year, will we?

— No, — Lika said sharply. — We cannot wait. The world shifts. The surface trembles, boundaries fade. Saën’Illla has been silent for three cycles. If the child is not conceived, we will choose another. Let Meira bring her to the altar at the appointed hour. We must prepare everything in advance.

— But if… if she truly carries the child? — Tarey asked, her voice faltering. — It would be… the first in a hundred and eighteen years?

Silence fell.

— The first, — said Lika. — And perhaps the last, if we miss the moment. That is why I ordered the samorodok cleansed and the Dome of Dawn opened.

The sisters stirred. This was serious. The Dome of Dawn—a sacred place where a single sunray pierces a crack above the chasm once a year. When it touches the samorodok, it unveils knowledge, revealing truth beyond magic’s reach. In that moment, Kaar’Ensa merges with the Goddess’s soul, and none who stand before it can lie.

— And if the light rejects her? — asked Irinel.

Lika paused, then said, almost with regret:

— Then Saën’Illla will reject us.

But not all agreed. Sister Ennayla, silent until now, let out a short, venomous chuckle:

— Or… things are not so clear. We don’t know what the Goddess truly desires. What if the child she carries becomes a threat?

— The Goddess does not birth threats, — Lika said coldly.

— But if the child defies her will, — Ennayla pressed, — we won’t let it grow. After all… if the fruit is rotten, it must be plucked before it falls.

Ennayla’s words, spoken with icy calm, were like a stone cast into still water, shattering the fragile balance in the hall.

Before her words fully faded, Lika, who had stood motionless as an ancient statue, stepped forward. No warning, no cry, no spell. Only a single, precise, almost invisible gesture.

Her hand, dry and strong as the bark of an ancient tree, struck Ennayla’s face with a sharp sound that echoed in the stone dome like a brief thunderclap.

— You dare question Saën’Illla’s will, — Lika said, her voice calm as a frozen lake. — You call rotten what the light has not yet judged. You judge before the sign. Before the omen. Before the revelation. That is blasphemy.

Ennayla did not lower her head. She stood proudly, but blood—thin, scarlet—trickled from the corner of her mouth down her pale skin. Lika stared into her eyes.

Lika stepped back, her fingers trembling—not from weakness, but from restrained power.

— Enough. Prepare the sanctuary. Double the guard. Purify Elara in the deep waters. On the day of the Sapphire Glow, she will stand before the samorodok. And no one—no one—has the right to speak of her fate until the light speaks.

The darkness in the subterranean sanctuary was unique—thick, viscous, as if woven from ancient ash and forgotten prayers. The obsidian ceilings absorbed the light of sparse glowing mushrooms, leaving only a ghostly shimmer, barely enough to discern the ancient runes on the walls.

Meira, hunched on the cold stone floor, meticulously traced the final symbol of the ritual circle. Her fingers, scarred from countless cuts by obsidian shards, trembled—not from fatigue, but from suppressed anger. A mixture of crushed kkhrelli larvae and her own blood slowly filled the grooves in the stone, making the runes pulse with faint blue light.

Always me. Always, she thought, watching the shadows of the priestesses in their pearlescent robes glide through the hall.

Her fingers, accustomed to rough work, clutched a rag, wiping sacred oil from the obsidian floor, but her mind drifted to the past—to the cold light of underground lanterns, to Iltaël-Dora, the School of Lunar Blades, its walls carved from black marble veined with silver, like a night sky frozen in stone.

She remembered that day with painful clarity—the gates, so tall that even craning her neck, she couldn’t see their tops, adorned with silver runes that flickered faintly, as if ashamed of their brilliance before eternal darkness.

Her mother, hands scarred from labor in the mushroom gardens, pushed her forward, and Meira felt her rough sackcloth catch on the carved symbols at the threshold—symbols meant to bar the unworthy.

Priestesses in masks of lunar pearl, their faces hidden behind delicate plates like the wings of night moths, surrounded her silently. One, wearing a crescent-shaped pendant of blue topaz, traced a cold finger along Meira’s wrist.

— Blood is there, but the hands… rough as a cave kkhrelli’s.

They made her drink from a chalice carved from a single piece of black jade, the liquid inside so thick it felt like swallowing darkness itself.

When she coughed, spilling a few drops onto the pristine floor, the senior priestess—her nails coated in blue enamel like the ice of the deepest caves—merely raised an eyebrow.

— The gift of Saën’Illla must not spill upon the earth, girl. Did your mother teach you nothing?

And then Meira understood—in these walls, she would always be a shadow, skimming the edge of true power.

Her fingers, used to coarse labor, rubbed the paste of crushed glowing larvae into the ritual runes’ grooves when—

— Meira!

The voice of senior handmaid Iltari sliced through the silence like an obsidian blade.

Meira flinched, and a drop of the sacred mixture fell outside the pattern, sizzling into the stone with acrid smoke.

No…

But it was too late.

Iltari—her face crisscrossed with scars from ritual burns—grabbed Meira’s hair and yanked so hard that capillaries burst on her neck.

— Daydreaming again, worm? — she hissed, her hot breath reeking of fermented mushroom juice. — You spilled the Goddess’s blood!

Meira, face pressed to the floor, saw her reflection in the polished obsidian twist in pain.

Iltaël-Dora… The memory surged despite the pain:

— You will never be one of us, — Priestess Aelin had said, adjusting a silver hairpin. — Your hands are made for dirt, not magic.

Back then, at the School of Lunar Blades, she had also lain on the floor—after failing to hold the ritual knife.

Iltari struck her face, pulling her back to the present.

— Get up! — She tossed a bone scraper at Meira’s feet. — Clean it. Until the layer is gone.

Meira, gritting her teeth, began scraping the marred rune. Each stroke left white scratches on the stone—like scars.

— Make it perfect by morning, — Iltari snapped, already leaving. — Or I’ll hand you to the Sisters of the Lash.

Meira shuddered.

The Sisters of the Lash—three mute handmaids who “corrected” the errant with kkhrelli, blind worm-like creatures that left never-healing patterns on the skin.

She pressed herself to the floor, trying not to think of the scar on her back from her last transgression, resembling an unfinished rune.