"Blood is the oldest language. The body never lies."
The words echoed in Eloise's head as the procession wound deeper into the stone-clad heart of the Crimson Court. She didn't know who had said them—one of the brides, maybe. Or the masked priest who waited at the altar like a statue carved from shadow.
All she knew was that her hands were sweating again, her stomach churned, and her instinct was screaming. Run.
But there was nowhere to go.
They descended in silence, all twenty-seven remaining brides wrapped in ceremonial cloaks—black on the outside, crimson within. The fabric whispered like wings as they walked single file, masks still fixed to their faces, eyes solemn beneath the flickering firelight.
The Rite chamber was vast and circular, hollowed out from black stone. Red candles lined the walls, and in the center, on a raised dais, stood the Altar.
It wasn't a slab like Eloise had imagined. It was a bowl—deep, obsidian, shaped like two hands cupped upward in offering. Ancient runes circled its rim, glowing faintly with pulsing scarlet light. The air tasted of iron and incense. She could hear the blood humming in her ears.
One by one, the brides stepped forward. A masked priest with lips painted in dried ash offered each a dagger.
A single drop. That was all it took.
Each girl pressed blade to skin. A crimson tear rolled down, falling into the black bowl. The runes flickered once with each offering—dim, obedient. Then it was the next bride's turn.
Clarissa. Bride Nine. Cecilia. All of them.
The bowl drank quietly. The room watched without speaking.
Then it was her turn.
Eloise froze.
She didn't move forward. Didn't take the blade.
The priest extended it toward her, gloved hand unwavering. His mask was stitched with threads of red that looked too much like veins.
"No," she said. Her voice rang too loudly in the stillness. "I won't."
The silence after was a vacuum.
Eyes turned. A murmur passed like a cold wind through velvet. The priest's hand did not lower.
"Do you refuse the Rite?" he asked.
Her throat tightened. "I didn't agree to any of this. I didn't choose to be here. And I'm not cutting myself open just to entertain some...some vampire prince's tradition."
The word "vampire" felt like a slap in the sacred space.
The priest tilted his head. "You were brought. You remained. You entered the banquet."
"I didn't have a choice."
"You do now," he said. "You may bleed willingly… or you may be reminded."
The torchlight flickered unnaturally then.
Behind her, guards stirred. One stepped forward—his hand on his blade.
Eloise's knees locked. Her breath shook. No one was going to help her this time. Not even Dorian, who stood at the edge of the circle, expression unreadable behind his plain silver mask.
The priest whispered, "No bride leaves without the mark. The Rite binds. It is law."
She swallowed. Her fingers trembled as they closed around the dagger.
"Just a drop," he said again, softly now. "Not enough to break you. Only enough to reveal you."
She raised the blade. Her reflection stared back from its polished edge—wide eyes, a mask too tight, a girl trying not to fall apart.
I hate this.
I hate them.
I hate that I'm doing it anyway.
She pressed it to the pad of her index finger. Pain bit sharply—brighter than she expected. A drop of blood welled up, dark and perfect.
She held her breath and let it fall into the bowl.
Then—
Light.
Not red. Not soft.
Gold.
The bowl flared with a sudden pulse of warm, sunlit radiance that threw shadows across the chamber. The runes ignited, not scarlet but golden-white, like lightning seared through ancient stone.
Gasps sounded behind her.
Eloise stumbled back, clutching her hand. The glow didn't fade. It danced, shimmered, then settled—but the altar still thrummed like something had awoken.
"What did she do?" one bride whispered.
"She didn't do anything," hissed another. "It reacted."
The priest was still. Too still.
He looked at her—no, through her. Like something ancient was watching through his eyes.
"It recognizes her," he said.
Someone stepped forward. "That's impossible. She's not even—she's not one of us."
"Blood does not lie," the priest said.
Eloise wanted to run. Wanted to scream. Her finger throbbed. The bowl still glowed faintly beneath the runes.
She turned, searching for an anchor. Dorian. He hadn't moved. But his gaze was locked on her, narrowed, wary.
Not surprised. Not exactly.
Suspicious.
The rest of the brides recoiled like she had suddenly grown thorns. As if she'd desecrated something sacred—or worse, changed it.
"I didn't mean to—" she began.
"No one means to be chosen," the priest said softly. "The Rite sees what is hidden."
Then, louder, to the room: "The Rite is complete. The Prince will be informed."
The guards stood down. The priest stepped back.
The moment passed—but it left behind an ache. A tremor in the foundation of something far older than her.
Later, in the private corridors, Cecilia slammed a door shut behind them.
"What the hell was that?"
Eloise winced. "I don't know."
"You glowed. Altars don't glow."
"I didn't do anything on purpose!"
Cecilia paced. "You marked yourself. You were supposed to disappear into the numbers. One of twenty-seven. And now…"
"What?"
"Now everyone's going to be watching you." Cecilia paused. "And not in the good way."
Eloise sank into a velvet chair. Her hand still hurt.
"I didn't ask for this," she said.
"You think that matters?"
They stared at each other.
After a moment, Cecilia sighed and knelt beside her.
"You looked like you were going to bolt."
"I wanted to."
"But you didn't."
"No," Eloise said. "And now I'm glowing."
Cecilia gave a short laugh, bitter and small. "Welcome to the court, golden girl."
That night, Eloise dreamt of the altar.
Except it wasn't a bowl anymore. It was a mouth.
It whispered her name in a voice like rust and sunlight. Over and over again.
When she woke, her finger was still bleeding.
And outside her chamber door, someone had left a single white rose with thorns still intact.