The moon hung low that night — swollen, crimson, like an open wound.
The Tower of Silence was quieter than usual. The whispers that usually crawled through the stones had gone still, holding their breath. Even the air seemed to know something sacred — and terrible — was about to happen.
Elara stood in the center of the ritual chamber, surrounded by seven cloaked figures of the Veiled Circle. Their faces were hidden, their hands joined, forming a ring of shadows around her.
At her feet, an ancient sigil burned faintly — a circle of runes drawn not in chalk, but in dried blood.
Seris stepped forward, carrying a silver chalice.
Her eyes caught the light — two sharp shards of moonlight.
"Elara," she said, her voice low and steady, "the flame within you has awakened. But fire without blood burns uncontrolled. Tonight, you will bind it — to yourself, to your vengeance, and to us."
Elara's pulse quickened. "What do I have to do?"
Seris lifted a dagger — black as midnight, its edge glowing faintly red.
"You will spill your blood into the Circle's cup," she said. "And we will spill ours into yours. From this night, your heart will beat with ours — one purpose, one hunger."
Elara hesitated. "And if I refuse?"
Seris's expression softened, but only slightly. "Then the flame inside you will consume you from within. You can't carry vengeance half-heartedly, child. It demands everything — even your soul."
---
The dagger's handle felt cold in her hand.
She looked down at her palm — the thorn sigil pulsing faintly.
My soul was theirs the day they betrayed me, she thought.
Without another word, she sliced her palm. Blood welled up, dark and hot. It dripped into the chalice with a faint hiss, as if the metal itself drank it eagerly.
The seven cloaked figures each stepped forward and did the same — their blood mingling with hers, swirling into a deep, glowing crimson.
Seris raised the chalice high. "Blood remembers. Blood binds. Speak your vow."
Elara's voice trembled at first, then hardened like steel.
"I swear by my blood," she said, "to avenge the innocent, to destroy the faithless, and to never again bow to the hand that betrayed me."
The chamber trembled. The air itself seemed to freeze.
Seris handed her the chalice. "Drink, Thorn-Blooded. Seal your vengeance."
Elara lifted it to her lips. The blood burned down her throat like fire and ice all at once. Her vision blurred — then exploded into light
---
She saw flashes:
A throne collapsing.
A man's scream echoing in fire.
A woman's hand reaching through darkness — her own.
The floor beneath her cracked, symbols flaring in gold and black. The wind howled through the chamber though no window was open.
The blood in her veins turned molten. Her heart raced, beating to an ancient rhythm she didn't recognize — something older than kingdoms, older than grief itself.
Then, silence.
When she opened her eyes, her body was glowing faintly. The thorn mark on her hand had deepened, its lines darker, sharper.
But her eyes — her once-green eyes — were now completely silver.
Seris knelt before her. "It is done. The Pact of Blood is sealed. From this night, your power is bound to your vengeance. If you break your vow, the flame will turn against you."
Elara stood taller, her breath calm, her gaze steady.
"I won't break it."
Seris smiled faintly. "Good. Because the world has already begun to tremble at your name."
---
That night, Elara didn't sleep.
She stood at the edge of the tower, looking down at the dark forest below — the wind pulling at her cloak, the stars watching like silent witnesses.
She could feel it now — the pulse of the blood oath in her veins.
Every heartbeat whispered one word:
Vengeance.
Somewhere far away, in the marble palace of Valenor, King Darius startled awake from a dream he couldn't remember — only the feeling of fire and the sound of a woman's voice whispering his name.