The dagger gleamed beneath the torchlight like liquid moonlight caught in steel.
Its edge was whisper-thin, carved with the ancient sigil of the Council Head—two serpents coiled around a bleeding rose.
The emissary held it with reverence as he stepped into the center of the chamber.
His voice carried the cold finality of tradition.
"The Mark of Blood," he declared, "demands not endurance, but offering. The test of loyalty made flesh."
Alessia stood still, every muscle taut, though her heart thundered in her chest.
The air in the hall was thick with incense and tension, every breath tasting faintly of iron.
Luca's gaze burned into her from the shadows.
He wasn't allowed to speak—no husband was, not during the Rite but his silence screamed louder than any word could.
The Council Head rose from his seat, his silver mask reflecting the flicker of firelight. "Alessia Morano," he intoned, "you have survived truth and silence.
