The ritual chamber floor was blank. A clean stone circle with no formation or even a hint of white paint.

  No victim. Not yet. How many people have they killed here?

  Viscount Tides turned to the young newcomers and smiled. His stare lingered on Jack for a few moments. “Tonight is not just a ritual,” he said. “It’s a lesson.”

  The other nobles moved into place, forming a loose ring around the centre of the chamber. Boxes were carried in by clockwork automatons. The older nobles opened the boxes. Inside: thin copper jars, crystal phials, and lacquered brushes.

  “Formation preparation is not simply artistic,” Baroness Idrisa said. “It’s exact and symbolic. A reflection of the will behind the blood.”

  Greaves gestured to Jack. “With me, my boy.”

  Fenton’s face tightened. “But… you guide me, Uncle?”

  Greaves turned his head. “You’ll work with Trefin.”

  Fenton glared at Jack.

  Jack kept his expression neutral and stepped forward.

  Greaves passed him a brush. The bristles shimmered; they were already coated in white paint infused with crushed aether crystals from previous use. The smell was sharp, bitter, and metallic.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Jack held the brush, knowing what came next.

  Greaves knelt and began marking the outline of one of the runes, humming under his breath. Jack copied the curve of the first stroke to perfection, his [Draughtsmanship] skill activated.

  When complete, the ritual formation would be composed of a set of twelve identical white runes painted onto the chamber floor to form a circle. White lines would connect them all to a central rune. The rune formation layout looked similar to the spokes of a wooden wagon wheel, where the wheel’s rim was replaced by a dozen white runes.

  In the centre, an identical, but larger rune was being produced by Viscount Tides and a young man in his mid-twenties. This would be where the bound victim lay, ready for skill harvest.

  The ritual’s purpose was to distribute the targets’ death across the circle, so all twelve blood mages gained a pseudo skill and a fair share of the affinity boost.

  Jack’s hand trembled only once. He masked it as a correction stroke.

  “You’ve handled rune paint before, my boy?” Greaves said.

  “Only theoretical, my lord,” Jack replied.

  Greaves grunted with a frown. “You learn fast.”

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  “Of course he does,” Fenton muttered, spoiling a rune stroke with a careless smear. “Give him a sword next and set him against a knight. Let’s see how he manages then.”

  Jack glanced at Fenton, who carried a sword at his side. I guess he’s a Novice Knight.

  “Concentrate, Fenton,” Baron Trefin chided. “The rune paint you just wasted costs more than a bottle of fine wine.”

  Fenton’s face flushed scarlet, his anger eclipsing his embarrassment as he glared at Jack once more.

  Jack ignored the others, his focus unwavering on the task at hand. Despite the company, he was enjoying the challenge.

  Over the next half hour, the elder nobles lectured, explaining each intricate stroke; they detailed the precise spacing between the twelve runes, the esoteric flow of magic, the siphoning of affinities, and the chaining of pseudo-skills made possible with a dozen [Chronos Sphere] spell scrolls.

  Jack listened, absorbing the new knowledge. What fascinating magic, he thought, as he listened. The [Chronos Sphere] spell extends the amount of time a blood mage has to extract skills. Along with the rune formation, it allows for a dozen pseudo skills to be extracted. Amazing.

  He might not have liked the idea of becoming a blood mage or killing people in cold blood to harvest their skills. However, he loved the acquisition of new knowledge, and this particular field of study was forbidden. He’d never find this knowledge in Merciar.

  By the end, the white runes gleamed with latent power. Crushed aether crystals pulsed inside the rune paint like dying stars. Each rune had a [Chronos Sphere] spell scroll at its side, ready to be activated at the right moment.

  The chamber felt different now. Hungrier. A predatory stillness settled over the air.

  Two guards entered, dragging a body between them.

  Jack’s breath caught. Cain!

  Cain was bloodied and gagged. His left arm was bound behind his back. The other was missing the hooked prosthetic; a stark, gaping absence.

  Cain’s eyes met Jack’s. Recognition, pain, and raw, unbridled fury spread across his features.

  The guards fastened Cain to the circular stone slab in the centre with a rope through hooks secured into the stone. One rope for each leg. One for the left arm. There was no ceremony; Cain was new meat for the blood altar.

  Viscount Tides stepped into the centre of the ring, shoes just beyond the edge of the runes.

  He gestured to the bound man. “Cain. Age thirty-nine. Journeyman Warrior. Bloodline unremarkable. No known surviving kin. Condemned for assaulting Viscount Rowlings. The sentence is death. His blood will fuel your growth.”

  Cain snarled behind the gag, his muscles straining against the ropes.

  Jack’s mouth fell open. Did he attack Rowlings for leaving him and Zia on the roadside?

  Viscount Tides gestured towards the runes. “Each of you will take position when instructed. Do not speak the chant until ordered. Any mistake will disrupt the harvest.” Tides looked around the room and lingered his stare on Jack. “For those who are experiencing a harvest for the first time. Beyond this, there is no turning back.”

  Jack resisted the urge to shrug. Yeah, because if I backed out now, you’d let me return home, right?

  Greaves patted Jack on the shoulder. “Impressive work on the rune. I have high hopes for you, my boy. Return to the manor house after the ritual, and we’ll talk further about your future.”

  Jack resisted the urge to cringe under the Baron’s touch. “Thank you, my lord.” He bowed.

  Then the twelve older nobles left. One by one, they exited the chamber, chatting about wine and organising the next deer hunt. In under a minute, Viscount Tides, Idrisa, Argil, Quill, Vampese, Trefin, Greaves, and the other five nobles were gone.

  The chamber door sealed with a hiss of spent aether-steam.

  Jack glanced around. Only twelve remained. Eleven young nobles and him.

  And Cain. Cain’s chest rose and fell in fast, shallow bursts. His rage burned through the gag. One glance at Jack and Jack knew.

  He believes I’m one of them.