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“Obviously,” I mutter, but I’m secretly grateful for the illumination. I prefer not to waste my own abilities on something as mundane as lighting.

The stairs spiral downward in a tight coil, the walls close on either side. It feels like descending into the throat of some ancient beast. Which, considering who I’m with, is perhaps not the most comforting metaphor.

We descend in silence for what feels like an eternity, the only sounds our footsteps. The staircase seems to goimpossibly deep, far below what should be the foundation of Heathborne. The air here feels charged, almost liquid with magical potential. We must be close to the convergence point, that nexus of ley lines beneath Heathborne’s foundation.

After what feels like a hundred steps but is probably closer to fifty, the staircase finally opens into a chamber that steals my breath. Not with beauty, but with power. The room pulses with energy so thick I could swim through it. Seven channels of light converge in the center, each a different color—vibrant blue, deep red, verdant green, brilliant white, midnight black, shimmering silver, and molten gold.

“Impressed?” Dayn asks, his voice oddly subdued in this space.

“It’s alright,” I shrug, though my racing heart betrays me. The runes on my wrist hum in response to the ambient energy, sending tingling sensations up my arm.

Dayn moves toward a stone altar positioned just beyond where the streams of light meet. He lays Mazrov’s sack-wrapped form on it with surprising gentleness.

“So this is where the magic happens? Literally?” I survey the chamber, noting ancient symbols carved into every surface, some familiar from my darkblood training, others completely foreign. “Cozy. Though your interior decorator should really consider some throw pillows.”

“Your attempts at levity mask your discomfort poorly,” Dayn observes, beginning to arrange items on a smaller table beside the altar—a silver bowl, several vials of liquid in varying colors, a knife with a blade that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.

On the floor, I also notice the items we’ve risked our lives to collect: the Relic of Severance nestled in an iron box, thevial of iridescent moonfire flower essence, elder blood in its crystal phial, the small pouch of darkblood ash, and the convergence water in a sealed glass flask.

I decide to keep my mouth closed for now and study Dayn as he works, his movements precise and economical.

How exactly am I going to do this?Perhaps I could nick him during the ritual? Create some minor “accident” that draws blood? But would a small amount even be enough? My grandmother could have at least specified the amount.

“You’re staring,” Dayn says without looking up from his preparations.

“Just admiring your work ethic,” I murmur.

Dayn arranges the final items with methodical precision, his fingers tracing patterns in the air above each component. The convergence waters shimmer in response, tiny ripples forming on the surface despite the sealed container. The moonfire essence glows brighter, pulsing as if in rhythm with the ley lines beneath us.

“There,” he says finally, stepping back from his meticulous arrangement. He turns to face me, his amber eyes glowing with an intensity that makes the runes on my wrist burn. “Now for the final preparation.”

“And that would be...?”

“Blood.” He steps toward me, shortening the distance between us with predatory grace. “Your blood, to be precise.”

“Myblood?” I almost splutter but manage to keep my voice level despite my racing thoughts. “That was never on the list.”

“It’s not something that could be collected in advance.” His eyes track across my face, searching for something. “The blood must be fresh. And willingly given.”

“Willingly given,” I repeat. “That’s an interesting stipulation.”

“The binding between myself and Heathborne was created using darkblood sacrifice. Their mages captured and drained seven darkblood practitioners to forge the chains that hold me. Symmetry demands that darkblood willingly given is required to break those chains.”

The word sacrifice hangs in the air like a blade, sharp and heavy. My stomach twists.

My people—murdered, their blood harvested like a crop, their lives extinguished to chain a dragon to this institution. How many covens lost members in that ritual? How many children lost mothers or fathers?

And what is going to happen to me down here if I don’t manage to drink Dayn’s blood?

“Symmetry,” I repeat, my voice remarkably steady despite the disturbance inside me. “So you need me to balance the scales. Poetic.” I pause. “And what happens if I say no?”

“Then the ritual fails. And our arrangement becomes... problematic.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You mean you’d kill me?”

He exhales. “I mean the consequences would be undesirable for both of us. As you already know.”

I pause again, the beginnings of a plan forming. “So you need my blood,” I state flatly, fighting to keep my face impassive. “How much are we talking?”