The Trial of Blood
The silence after Ciaran's snarl lingered like smoke. His words She is mine. That is all that matters still trembled in the chamber, but the Elders did not bow to them. Not this time.
One by one, their eyes turned not to him, but to me. Weighed me. Measured me. Judged me.
"She is yours, yes," said the white-haired Elder, his voice steady as stone. "But the throne is not. The throne belongs to the packs. To the blood that binds us all. If she carries it, then let it speak."
Another Elder leaned forward, her nails clicking against the arm of her obsidian chair. "Let her veins tell the truth or expose the lie."
A rumble of assent circled the chamber.
Selene's smile widened, so slight it might have been mistaken for compassion. "Surely," she purred, "my sister has nothing to fear. If she carries even a drop of true blood, it will answer. And if not…" Her gaze found mine, glittering like a blade slipping between ribs. "Then it is better we know before the bond binds us all to ruin."
The Elders murmured again, nodding. The sound grew into something heavier inevitable.
Ciaran's growl was thunder, his silver eyes ablaze. "You would cut into what is mine?"
The woman Elder did not flinch. "We would cut to truth."
And for the first time, I understood this wasn't about me alone. It was about him. About the throne. If they found weakness in me, it wouldn't just tarnish me. It would fracture him.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My throat tightened.
Ciaran turned, his grip crushing mine. His voice dropped to a growl meant only for me. "You do not have to do this."
But every eye in the circle was on me. Every ear straining for my answer. And deep in my bones, I knew there would be no escaping this chamber without blood. Mine.
"I will," I whispered, before I could stop myself.
Ciaran's head snapped toward me, fury flashing in his gaze. "Elara"
"If I refuse," I said, forcing steel into my voice, "they will believe Selene. They will believe I am fragile. Unworthy. That the bond has erred." My hands shook, but I forced them still. "If my blood is the only way, then let it speak."
Selene's smile bloomed like a night flower. She had won this step without lifting a claw.
The white-haired Elder gestured. From the shadows, a servant appeared carrying a shallow bowl of obsidian and a blade so sharp the air itself seemed to tremble around it. Both glistened with runes carved into the metal, symbols that thrummed with ancient power.
"The Trial of Blood," the Elder intoned. "Blood under moonlight cannot lie."
The servant set the bowl on the sigil carved into the floor. The blade's runes pulsed faintly, answering something older than the chamber itself.
My knees threatened to give way. I locked them straight.
Ciaran caught my chin, forcing my gaze to his. The storm in his eyes was a maelstrom I could drown in. "Do not do this for them," he said, voice low, almost breaking. "Do not give them what they ask."
I swallowed hard. "Then tell me the truth."
The words fell between us like a stone into deep water.
His jaw tightened, but silence held him captive.
Selene's laughter, soft as silk, unfurled around us. "He cannot, sister. That is why you must bleed. Because even your King will not speak what you are."
The Elders shifted, impatient. Their eyes gleamed like predators in the dark. The bowl waited. The blade glimmered.
And in the tension of that breathless moment, I understood something cruel. This trial was not meant to protect me. It was meant to expose me. To strip away the veil, the bond, the fragile shield of Ciaran's claim.
The Elder raised the blade, gesturing. "The hand will suffice."
The servant stepped closer.
Ciaran moved instantly, his snarl shaking the chamber. He shoved the servant back, seizing the blade by the hilt. The runes flared at his touch, furious, as if they too knew his wrath.
"She does not bleed for your curiosity," he thundered. "She does not bend for your doubt."
But even as he spoke, I saw the crack. His grip on the blade trembled not with weakness, but with restraint. And the Elders saw it too.
Selene's eyes gleamed like cold stars. She didn't need to speak anymore. She only needed to watch him falter.
I reached out, covering his hand with mine. My voice shook, but it carried. "If I bleed, it will not be for them. It will be for us."
The chamber hushed.
I lifted the blade from his grip. His breath caught, fury and anguish flashing across his face, but he did not stop me. Could not.
The runes burned cold against my palm. The bowl waited below, black and hungry.
I pressed the edge against my skin
And the chamber doors boomed open.
Every Elder turned. The torches guttered.
A cloaked figure stepped inside, shadows clinging to him like smoke. His voice was deep, jagged, and it froze the air itself.
"Her blood is not yours to take."