BLOOD OATH OF ELARIS

CHAPTER 2

The Morning Rite

The sun had barely risen when the temple bells began their low, thrumming call. Elaris awoke in ripples, shutters creaked open, firewood was stacked in hearths, and voices carried in hushed tones down the misty streets.

It is the wedding day.

Liora woke up with a shiver; she didn't get a restful night, and her stomach was unsettled. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders as she came out of the house. She joined the small crowd gathering near the Temple of the First Light. The building loomed at the edge of the square, its walls made from pale limestone that caught the dawn and turned it molten gold. A spiral stairway led to heavy wooden doors bound in iron.

Inside the temple, the air was heavy with incense, a mingling of sharp spice and honeyed sweetness that clung to the senses and seemed to slow the very breath. Towering pillars, each etched with spirals of ivy so delicately carved they seemed almost alive, rose like silent guardians to uphold the vast, shadowed ceiling above. From high along the walls, stained glass windows caught the early morning sunrise, breaking it into shards of color ruby, sapphire, emerald that spilled in restless patterns across the stone floor, shifting and dancing with every flicker of light. The place felt at once sacred and timeless, as though it had been waiting centuries for the next oath to be spoken.

At the center, before the altar, stood Mariel Darrin Kaelen’s younger sister. Her gown was the color of cream, embroidered with threads of copper. An arrangement of pale roses crowned her dark hair. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched them in front of her, eyes fixed on the basin that gleamed on the altar.

All eyes were fixed on her, and each person was worried with their own thoughts.

Suddenly a sharp single clap from the altar

The High Priestess appeared like a shadow silently from behind the altar. She was draped in robes the color of nightfall, her silver hair twisted into an intricate knot. Her eyes, a pale grey, pierced as they swept over the gathered witnesses before resting on the bride.

“Step forward, child,” she said, her voice deep and resonant.

Mariel obeyed, her steps shaky and measured. Unceremoniously the priestess raised a small, silver dagger. The blade was etched with runes so old that even the scholars could not name them.

Repeat the words of the Oath, the priestess intoned, her voice low yet carrying the weight of centuries.

The flickering glow of the altar fire painted patterns across her face. Mariel swallowed hard, the taste of iron on her tongue, and began.

At first, her voice trembled, barely more than a whisper, but with each syllable, the strength in her chest returned.

“By my blood,” she said, feeling the warmth of the cut upon her palm, “I bind myself to my union.”

The words rang in the air like the tolling of distant bells.

“By my blood, I bind myself to the law,” she continued, her gaze locking with the priestess’s unwavering eyes.

A hush settled over the chamber.

“May the First Light witness me, she declared, the final vow rising like a flare in the darkness, “and may the shadow be kept at bay.”

The silence that followed was deep, almost holy broken only by the soft hiss of the altar flame as it seemed to bow in acknowledgment

The words echoed in the chamber, sinking into the stones themselves. The priestess nodded, then took Mariel’s right hand, whispered under her breath, and in a single, swift motion drew a drop of blood. Mariel bit her lips hard as crimson against pale skin trickled out. It fell into the basin with a sound far too loud for its size, a sharp, liquid note that made Liora’s skin crawl.

The priestess stirred the blood with the tip of the dagger. The crowd held its breath tensed as it watched. For the briefest moment, Liora thought she saw the liquid darken not red, but black, as if ink had spilled into it. Then it cleared again, bright and clean. The priestess smiled faintly.

“She is worthy,” she announced, “The union may proceed.”

The crowd exhaled, and soft murmurs of relief passed through the air. But Liora’s gaze flicked to Kaelen, who stood near the front with his father. His jaw was rigid, his eyes fixed on the basin, and there was something in his face not relief, but tension, doubt as if he had been holding his breath for an entirely different reason. Mariel felt her heart beat with joy. The hardest part is over; joyfully, she smiled.

The wedding ceremony continued, filled with blessings and songs and dancing, but the image of the blood in the basin clung to Liora’s mind. She had always thought the Rite was a symbolic tradition, nothing more. But watching the priestess study that blood, she realized it was more than a ceremony.

It was a test. A judgment.

When the ritual ended and the crowd walked out back into the square, Kaelen found her. You were watching, he said quietly.

“Yes,” she replied. And so were you.”

He cast a quick glance toward the towering temple doors, where the priestess still lingered like a sentinel. Her pale eyes swept over the dispersing crowd with the slow, deliberate precision of someone weighing every soul she saw.

“It’s never just a blessing,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be carried away by the bustle. “It’s a judgment.”

Before Liora could shape a question, his father’s voice cut through the air, summoning him with the authority of habit. Kaelen hesitated only a heartbeat before turning away, the moment between them slipping like water through her fingers.

That evening, the wedding feast spilled light and music into the square. Lanterns swayed overhead, scattering warm gold across the laughing faces of the revelers. Musicians played a bright, quick rhythm, and the smell of spiced bread and roasted meat curled through the air.

Liora spotted Kaelen near the center, his hand clasping his sister’s as they spun to the music. He smiled for her sake, a smile that almost reached his eyes, but so often his gaze would flick, unbidden, toward the looming shadow of the temple beyond the square. It was as though the weight of the Morning Rite still clung to him, invisible yet heavy, refusing to be danced away.