The Shape of Sacrifice
The night did not resist Blake.
It measured him.
Every corridor beneath Noctyrrh pressed closer as he walked, shadows brushing his skin like cold fingers counting bones. The Dreadsword grew heavier with every step, its hunger no longer abstract.
At twenty-five, Blake had shed blood for the realm without hesitation.
Offering himself was different.
The darkness opened into a cavern older than the palace above—an ancient heart hollowed from the world itself. Runes glowed faintly along the stone, written in blood so old it had become part of the rock.
The altar waited.
"So this is where kings are paid for," Blake murmured.
The Dreadsword answered by cutting his palm.
Blood spilled freely, soaking into the runes. The cavern shuddered as the curse noticed him.
Above, in the Sanctum, Lumi screamed.
The truth surged violently, ripping through every remaining ward as clarity crashed into her all at once.
He is offering himself. Alive.
"No," she whispered, staggering to her feet. "That's not balance. That's annihilation."
She pressed both hands to the wall and pulled.
Truth answered.
The Sanctum's stone groaned as fractures raced outward, light flickering wildly. Guards shouted. Bells rang.
Back below, Blake dropped to one knee as pain tore through him—not just physical, but something deeper, older.
Memories that were not his flooded in.
Princes who had knelt here before him.
Truth Bearers who had screamed as love was torn from them.
This is the shape of sacrifice, the night whispered. Love offered so the realm may endure.
Blake laughed weakly. "Then you've miscalculated."
He drove the Dreadsword into the altar.
"I don't offer love," he said through clenched teeth. "I offer choice."
The runes flared blinding white.
The curse recoiled.
In the Sanctum, Lumi felt it—the sudden slackening, like a chain snapping loose.
She ran.
Stone shattered as she tore free of the tower, truth blazing around her like a living thing. The guards fell back, unable to approach.
"No more cages," she said, voice echoing with power that no longer hurt. "No more offerings made without consent."
The night split open before her.
Down in the cavern, Blake gasped as the pressure shifted. The darkness screamed—not in rage, but in uncertainty.
"Lumi," he breathed.
She burst into the chamber in a storm of fractured light and shadow, eyes blazing, blood-streaked but unbroken.
At twenty-two, Lumi Reyes stood between the realm and its oldest lie.
"You don't get to decide this alone," she said fiercely. "Not anymore."
The altar cracked.
The curse faltered.
And for the first time since Noctyrrh had fallen into eternal night, sacrifice no longer meant surrender.