One Week Later: Bathed in the sinister glow of three moons, the steady drip of blood rung through the chamber. Each drop struck the pool like the relentless beat of a taiko drum, pounding against Airsil’s steadfastness.

  She and Yinaya stood in the secret chamber deep below the castle—a place forgotten by most, its stones saturated with centuries of devotion. Carved into the bedrock millennia ago, the sanctuary held secrets the surface world had long abandoned. Airsil had overheard the priests mention that the castle was built upon a vein of divine power, though even they could not comprehend its true potential. Still, eternal vitality pulsed through the floor like the lungs of a sacred organism.

  Airsil stood solemnly as Yinaya knelt before her, hands deftly untying the obi that secured her robe. With practiced grace, Yinaya slid the fabric from Airsil’s shoulders, each movement deliberate, steeped in ritual. This was more than mere respect; it was an acknowledgment of balance, of knowing one’s station in the sacred order.

  Balance came to Airsil as instinctively as breath. Not horror—though others might have seen it that way. No, she embraced the truth. What good was true blood if not to strengthen dominion’s grasp? The Dinehin demanded much, exacting their dues without mercy—tributes of flesh, of heritage, of all that dared stand in their path.

  Yinaya approached, cradling an infant. Its faint sobs sliced through the silence, a fragile sound barely touching Airsil’s detachment. Her focus remained on the bath ahead—no longer filled with sulfur’s acrid stench but now a crimson, viscous pool drawn from the infant’s parents and their livestock. With sweet words and subtle spells, Yinaya had led them here willingly. They knelt at her feet, bleeding, believing their sacrifice a holy act. Such was the fate of the unenlightened.

  Airsil stepped into the bath; the liquid stuck to her legs, oily and kept warm by Yinaya’s prayers. The imprint of those lives enveloped her as if they were a second skin, tangible and intimate. Her pulse stayed constant, devoid of misgivings. She was Scorsorai, a descendant of dragon lords. Her lineage was untainted, unsullied by the world’s common filth. Why hesitate?

  Yinaya handed her the infant, its body trembling as if sensing the cruel fate ahead. Airsil’s hands, usually so steady, faltered for an instant as she held the infant. The innocence in its wide, unknowing eyes triggered a long-buried compassion deep inside her, a sensation she thought she had extinguished.

  A chilling realization crept into her mind: If I were to bear a child of my own, could I offer it so easily? A pang constricted her chest. No, she insisted. Her father had always been resolute in his duties, and she had been taught the same. But some costs were too high. Perhaps because that understanding, as the infant stirred in her arms, misgiving rubbed against her, like the infant’s smooth skin.

  Yinaya moved to the bath’s edge, eyes closed, murmuring an ancient chant. The language was older than the stones under them, each syllable unraveling reality’s fabric. Energy suffused the surroundings, eroding their solidity.

  A primal force awakened within Airsil, one entwined with her since birth. This is the way it must be. Her ancestors were blooddrinkers, and the Dinehin had awakened this dormant trait. She tightened her grip on the infant. But the conviction felt empty, a mantra worn thin. Dominion demanded not just power but the sacrifice of her own tenderness. Each life claimed pulled her further into an abyss, pieces of herself fading.

  The infant’s cries diminished, a soft lament fading into the unknown. Airsil raised the infant, her actions measured, unerring. No malice harbored her heart, no cruelty stained her mind. Only duty. Only the law of their world. Balance. Justice, as the gods decreed.

  The gods take what is owed. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Yinaya’s voice rose; the chant intensified as her hands moved gracefully, tracing symbols that ignited momentarily before dissolving into the gloom. She observed her closely, admiration awake beneath her stoic facade. Yinaya’s skill was unmatched, each gesture seamless, words interlacing perfectly with the ritual’s fabric.

  She never falters.

  The thought aroused something beyond admiration in Airsil—something loving, unfamiliar, dangerous. Yinaya was the only one who understood her, who shared the burden without question. But as Yinaya traced the ritual’s intricate patterns with flawless grace, Airsil realized she was more than an ally. She was her harness to whatever remained of her humanity.

  Yinaya’s motions quickened, gestures slicing the air with razor-like precision. The ancient, twisted markings undulated on the surfaces, animated by the prayer’s power. Electric sparks crackled against Airsil. They rippled up her skin, raising her hair towards the ceiling.

  Tiny yellow eyes fluttered open, filled with a silent question, a plea. The infant’s tears faded, her mouth closing, hiding the sharp, tender incisors just breaking through her gums. A lump rose unexpectedly in Airsil’s throat, a remorse she hadn’t anticipated. Enough of this fucking weakness! Focus on Yinaya, she told herself.

  Her gaze shifted from the infant back to Yinaya. It is she who is important. She believes this is necessary. She’s performing this vileness for me. A second ache tightened in her chest, creeping up toward her throat.

  Unnatural blue vitality replaced the flaring flames, casting erratic shadows across the walls. Carved dragons hanging along the chamber twisted in animated torment, their forms writhing as if alive. Beneath the bath, the tatami mats trembled with the infant’s life force, the pulse of it resonating within the room like a living presence. However, Airsil’s thoughts did not leave Yinaya. Do not falter, Yinaya. To offend the gods is to summon your own ruin.

  Yinaya’s tone reached a fevered pitch, and a shudder ran through the chamber, as if it could no longer contain the bitter strength of the summoning. Airsil glanced down at her trembling reflection in the sanguine flow—distorted, dark, barely recognizable. She tore her gaze away, lips parting as an uncontrollable thought slipped through. I need her. More than I’ll ever say aloud.

  The incantation rolled from Yinaya’s lips, a hymn spun from darkness, each word drawing the Dinehin closer. A force surged about the chamber; the atmosphere densified with each syllable. The infant nestled against her chest grew still, its life force a faint whisper amid the tempest of magic. So small. So feeble.

  “The last vestiges of innocent life must slip away!” Yinaya announced. “This child is but a dying ember extinguished by mightier forces.”

  As the last gesture of the rite, Yinaya held out her hand to Airsil. Eagerly awaiting the donation, the bath churned wildly. With her senses overwhelmed by a primordial need, Airsil flashed her razor-sharp teeth. However, she felt an instinct, a wordless cry from the bottom of her heart, pleading with her to stop as her fangs contacted the baby's flesh.

  She froze, her hand cradling the infant's fragile form. The tiny heartbeat fluttered against her palm like a dying bird's wings. Her gaze locked onto the child's face, its warmth a jarring contrast to the chill seeping into her bones. The softness of its skin unsettled her, as did the scent of lifeblood and innocence that clung to her like a shroud.

  For the first time, the stillness felt like suffocation, as if the chamber itself conspired to smother her. The infant’s rapid, shallow breaths stirred. The warmth of her exhale wisped against Airsil’s cheek—quick, heaving, the swiftest shudder before oblivion.

  I must do this. But the words wavered. The allure of blood and power called to her, yet with each tremor of the tiny body, the gravity of the life she held tugged on her.

  The Dinehin demand this. I cannot refuse them.

  Her gaze locked with Yinaya’s; a rush of emotion flooded her—affection, perhaps something deeper, more perilous. She couldn’t name it, didn’t dare to. Instinct took over, sharp and unyielding.

  In a single, fluid motion, her teeth pierced the infant’s neck. The skin broke like delicate parchment, and hot crimson gushed over her pallet, metallic and bitter, coating her tongue with the taste of innocence destroyed.

  The infant let out one final gasp—a desperate, breathless sound—before its body went limp in her arms. Blood seeped between her fingers, hot and sticky, mingling with the cold sweat on her palms. Energy coursed through her veins, raw and potent, but the taste lingered—metallic and syrupy, the sweetness of life tainted by the malevolence of the act.

  The offering was complete. But for Airsil, the flavor turned bitter. The triumph she expected felt distant, unreachable, as if the life she had taken had drained life from her as well. She looked down at the infant’s lifeless body, her hands stained with more than just sacrificial essence.

  The body slid from her grasp, sinking underneath the surface. Her gaze lingered on Yinaya. Would she ever see beyond this? Beyond the blood?

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  An electric aura crackled through the chamber, its sharp hum escalating to a deafening roar that assaulted her ears. The very air trembled as the Dinehin tore through the ether with the destructive intensity of a shattering storm. Their arrival was violent—a rupture that sent shockwaves through the chamber. The ground heaved beneath her feet, and the walls buckled as if trying to escape their arrival.

  Yinaya shrieked and crumpled to the floor like a bird felled mid-flight. Airsil, meanwhile, felt her footing give way on the slick, viscous liquid below. A startled cry escaped her lips as she pitched forward, but she caught herself just enough to land hard on one knee.

  Above, the Dinehin’s majestic, seven-fold form towered, its visages—a ghastly parade of Darathor’s stern fury, Ilithara’s ethereal beauty, Nytheris’s cold calculation, Ellurian’s wild passion, Harondel’s stoic resolve, Iridian’s mystical intensity, and Norvelia’s sorrowful wisdom—twisting and contorting like living shadows. Each visage seemed to hunger for dominance, its features writhing with an insatiable thirst for power.

  Their presence leeched the chamber of warmth, leaving the air brittle, like the faintest whisper of winter’s breath. The stone itself shuddered, emitting low, pained groans as the earth strained to contain the enormity of its otherworldly essence.

  Airsil lifted her gaze, eyes stretched wide, her breath shuddering as awe and terror tangled in her chest.

  The Dinehin’s voices boomed, seven intertwined into chaotic resonance that shook the chamber—a summons, a judgment, an unbreakable command.

  “Airsil-hime,” they intoned. “We know why you hail us.”

  Of course they knew. Yinaya’s ritual had been flawless—more potent than either of them had anticipated. Airsil’s gaze flicked to Yinaya, who knelt with her forehead pressed to the floor, eyes averted.

  Airsil bowed, strands of her hair sinking into the gore-slicked pool. The ceremony was complete, but her duty had only begun.

  “Then what is thy will, my lords?” she asked.

  “To gain our favor and be our warrior,” the seven voices thundered as one, “you must be our hand of death, even if that hand takes what is precious. Our bidding is simple, Airsil-hime: Kill Moire.”

  The command stole the oxygen from her lungs. He is undeserving of his station, but is he deserving of death? The savagery of their words coated her heart with acid. She had always known this path led to sacrifice, but internal echo not his sacrifice. Not Moire’s.

  The words challenged her like a warrior’s binding oath: unyielding, solemn, and unbreakable. But hadn’t the road taken always led to this point? Uncertainty crept within her, yet it disappeared as swiftly as it arrived. The Dinehin’s will was a boiling basin—scalding, merciless, and its purpose undeniable. Cruelty was their test, a trial meant to carve out her resolve. She could not, and would not, turn away.

  My betrothed, you have had your time. Now it’s mine.

  “My lords, it shall be done,” she said, bowing lower. Perhaps if I bow low enough, they won’t notice my tears.

  As the Dinehin faded, the chamber plunged into an airless stillness. Airsil stood upright, hair sticky with the offering’s carnegie. Her determination felt like mercury in her veins. His lifeblood. Her brother’s. Could she truly take it? Could she pay this final cost? In a new experience, doubt quivered on her lips, twitching harder with each passing second. She closed her eyes, but his face—Moire’s face—remained, haunting her in the oppressive silence.

  The Town of Awarange L’nd: Through a veil of pain, Kaiya’s consciousness clawed its way back. Each breath was a labor, not against the icy bite she was accustomed to but against an oppressive heat that smothered her senses. Kaiya squinted against a brilliance that skewered her retinas with unforgiving light.

  She lay sprawled across a landscape alien in its vividness. The sky stretched out in a cerulean expanse, marred only by the dark smear of smoke billowing from a sinister peak in the distance. Beneath her, the ground was not the familiar cold of home but a swath of sand—hot, blazing, coarse, and utterly foreign.

  Scattered around her were feathers, enormous and imposing, each as long as her arm and black as a moonless night, edged with an iridescent sheen of magenta when caught by the sun. Nearby, a great furrow carved through the earth, evidence of something massive, something that had crash-landed with earth-shattering force.

  Pain lanced through her ribs as she fought to sit up. Her mind spun with confusion. How had she come to be here, far from the icy shores of her homeland? Her last memory—a dire bear's earth-shaking roar, then darkness.

  A sardonic laugh slipped from her, muffled by the grinding sand as she shifted. Perhaps it takes more than just a bear to end my tale, she thought. Kaiya's silver eyes, slightly upturned at the corners like the elegant arc of a falcon's wing, narrowed on the rising column of smoke. Or perhaps I've simply traded one death for another.

  With effort, she sat up, her hands sinking into the warm sand. The feathers demanded her attention once more; they seemed too deliberate, too purposeful. Was it a giant bird, then? A creature of myth, perhaps, responsible for my unexpected voyage?

  As she sat, evaluating her next course of action, a breeze teased her senses, laden with the scent of smoke and something chemical—sharp, biting. It was the scent of danger, of unknown challenges lurking in this new world. Her lips curved into a wry smile. No chance for respite, it seems.

  Determination wrapped around Kaiya like a protective cloak. She was an unwelcome guest in this unfamiliar land, but it was where she found herself nonetheless. With a steady gaze fixed on the distant volcano, a reminder flitted through her thoughts—keep away from that fiery giant. It was a practical note to herself, grounded in the stark reality of her situation, blending caution with her resolve to survive and adapt.

  A sound startled Kaiya—a curious blend of youthful fear and wonder. Two figures approached, their faces marked by rounded, mud-brown eyes. Their skin, darkened by the unforgiving sun, and their hair, a shade deeper than the sand she lay in, stood in stark contrast to the icy hues of Islunnia. Will my skin and hair char like theirs? she wondered, studying their peculiar tones. They were so different from the snow-pale faces and the slender, silver eyes of home.

  The taller of the two pointed skyward, his hand mimicking the arc of something grand and invisible. He spoke again, his words imbued with a questioning lilt. Kaiya could only offer a bewildered shake of her head, her ignorance a shroud she couldn’t cast off.

  “I... I don't understand,” she croaked. What harsh language do these children speak? she wondered internally, noting how their words seemed to clash and clang like flint stones.

  The shorter youth’s eyes went big and round at the sound of her voice. He seized his companion's arm, his voice escalating with excitement. One word punctuated his rapid chatter—a repeated cry of “Ghost!” It was a term Kaiya recognized from childhood fables told around hearths, a word steeped with the eerie tales of her people.

  A sour but painful chuckle escaped her lips, causing the youths to step back warily. “Not a ghost,” she reassured them, her feeble gesture encompassing her sand-covered form. “Just... lost.”

  As she attempted to rise, a cascade of sand spilled from her torso, inadvertently revealing more than intended. Ygdir's beard, I'm as naked as the day I first breathed air! Shock flared within her as scorching pain from her legs buckled her anew, drawing a sharp cry that ended in a collapse.

  The taller youth, overcoming his reluctance, peeled off his ragged tunic and draped it over her shoulders, offering modest coverage. The shorter companion unhooked a water skin from his belt, its warm contents providing relief to Kaiya's dry throat.

  Why are they helping me? Kaiya wondered, her gratitude laced with suspicion as she clutched the makeshift garment. She sipped from the water skin, the tepid liquid soothing the burn in her throat as she took in her surroundings. Sweat trickled down her face—a familiar sensation, but never in this kind of heat. She wiped her brow and stared at the salty slickness on her fingers.

  A bell tolled in the distance, its echoes drifting from her left. Kaiya turned toward the sound. There, by the vibrant bay, a fishing village hummed with life, its bustling energy a sharp contrast to her grim reality.

  The boy’s conversation resumed, a flurry of urgent gestures and cautious glances directed at her and the ominous feathers nearby. Without mastery of their language, Kaiya could hardly infer their intentions, her instincts teasing out concern from their earnest tones.

  As Kaiya pushed herself to rise, her legs shook. The world tilted dangerously around her, threatening to drag her back into the dark embrace of unconsciousness. The taller of the two boys reached out, his touch tentative yet steadying, grounding her against the swirl of vertigo.

  She cast a suspicious glance at the strangers and the sun-drenched landscape sprawling endlessly around her. A tide of panic surged, but Kaiya forced it down, locking it in the same corner of her mind as her darkest fears. Am I so cursed, she wondered, to find myself abandoned in such a forsaken place?

  “What am I going to do?” The question was a whisper lost on the wind. It wasn’t meant for the boys who looked at her with wide, curious eyes, but for the part of her still clinging to the hope of finding a way out of this nightmare.

  The shorter boy gestured animatedly towards the distant town, his dark eyes alight with a plan. After a rapid exchange, the taller one nodded and motioned for Kaiya to follow. Hesitation slowed her steps, the instinctive distrust of the unfamiliarity wrestling with the raw necessity of survival.

  Trusting these youths is a colossal risk, she reminded herself. But as she scanned the barren beach and the fierce sun overhead, the harsh truth became clear: there were no other options. With a heavy, resigned breath, Kaiya stepped forward. The strangers adjusted their pace to match hers, casting frequent glimpses back at her, their faces etched with a fusion of concern and curiosity. As they led her towards the civilization that beckoned on the horizon, Kaiya spared one last look at the giant feathers and the deep groove in the sand—a bizarre testament to her arrival.

  Survive first, she commanded herself, each step a defiance of her circumstances. Understand later. Raised in the unremitting cold of the north, tempered by trials that would have broken lesser spirits, Kaiya knew how to endure. This land’s sun did not slay me. I will master its environment, find allies, or carve a path back home.

  Embracing the quiver of resolve that sparked within her, Kaiya followed them into the unknown, her heart steeling itself against the myriad dangers that awaited. Each stride was an affirmation of her will, a silent vow that no matter what this land threw at her, she would rise to meet it. Perhaps the elders don’t know the resilience of their own people. Or am I somehow special? No. Of course I’m not!