Chapter Eight:

  “The Rite of Five”

  They did not walk from the arena. They were escorted—escorted by guards who neither jeered nor threatened, who moved like statues brought briefly to life. No one spoke. Not the survivors. Not the stone-eyed sentinels. Not even the wind.

  John’s knuckles were still raw. Rai’s tunic clung with dried blood that wasn’t hers. Helen limped on a bruised ankle she refused to acknowledge. Dorian—the fourth survivor of the day’s games—was tall, narrow-faced, and clutched his ribs with every step.

  RW padded quietly beside them. The moment the archway swallowed the last torchlight from the arena, she gave a low, guttural purr—not in contentment, but in warning.

  They were not being led to a prison. They were being prepared.

  The path split beneath the coliseum. What followed was no mere corridor but a descending spiral carved into the bone of the earth. They passed torch-lit alcoves, forgotten mosaics, and frescoes that showed players not dying—but transforming. From mortals to myths.

  They arrived at a chamber that smelled of myrrh and steam. Pools waited—set in polished stone, ringed with dark marble pillars. The water shimmered with unnatural clarity, and the silence was heavy as a closing tomb.

  Attendants emerged—not guards, but veiled figures in robes. Their faces were hidden behind silver masks, featureless save for a single etched line where a mouth should be. They gestured. No words. Only motion.

  John looked to Rai. She nodded once and stepped forward.

  One by one, they entered the pools.

  The water wasn’t warm. It was perfect. The exact temperature of forgotten memories. As the attendants moved around them, Helen whispered under her breath, eyes distant.

  "This is how the dead are cleaned before judgment."

  They were scrubbed—gently, relentlessly. Blood peeled away. Bruises vanished under salves. Their hair was oiled and bound. Cuts sealed without sting. Scars were left untouched.

  They were not healed. They were purified.

  Fresh robes were brought: white linen with embroidered borders in deep black and gold. Each was slightly different—John's marked with intersecting circles, Rai's with storm-like waves, Helen’s with a laurel half-woven, half-burning. Dorian's robe bore a spiral crossed with a single diagonal line—an unfinished path, marked by a wound.

  RW was taken separately—groomed by silent constructs shaped like feminine statues, their hands carved from ivory. When she returned, her fur gleamed like moonlight, her eyes sharper than ever.

  They stood together again at the top of the stairs that led away from the chamber.

  The air had changed.

  Above them, music began—soft strings, old and aching.

  The feast was waiting.

  The music guided them upward.

  It drifted through the winding halls—strings, low and weeping, wrapped in chords that trembled against the stone. No guards hurried them now. No hands pushed or barked. Only the path, lit by fire in bowls of obsidian, each flame a different hue: violet, silver, indigo, gold.

  They passed beneath an arch carved with three crowns—one cracked, one veiled, one circled by serpents. Beyond it, the hall opened.

  The feast hall was unlike anything they'd seen in Nerathe.

  Not carved from bloodstained stone like the arenas. Not broken or scorched. This was clean, ancient, terrifying in its perfection. Polished black marble stretched from wall to wall, lit by suspended lanterns that floated with no chains or ropes. The air smelled of citrus and cedar, with undertones of wine and smoke.

  The table at the center was long, curved into a crescent, and shaped from living root—its wood pulsing faintly with life, as though breathing. Upon it: silver platters gleamed with roasted meats, glistening fruit, spiced grains, and bread flecked with golden seeds. Chalices shimmered, already filled.

  At the far end, the Triarchs waited.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Calix lounged as if he'd never moved, his fingers curled around a jeweled goblet. Damarion stood beside his chair, arms crossed, his face warm with a rare smile, like a host quietly pleased that his guests were finally being well taken care of. Thessala sat motionless, her cracked mask lit from within, a single finger trailing the rim of her untouched cup.

  RW stepped forward first, tail high.

  John felt the hairs rise on his neck. The space felt wrong. Not hostile—but sacred. Not safety, but ceremony.

  "Please," Calix said, rising just slightly. "Be welcome. You’ve earned this."

  Helen’s eyes darted to the food. Her stomach twisted at the scent, but she said nothing.

  Rai did not sit. Not yet. Neither did John.

  Calix arched a brow, his smile ever relaxed. "Suspicion? My dear children, if we wanted you dead, you would never have seen the baths."

  Dorian stepped forward—and sat.

  He reached for a cup and took a cautious sip.

  Nothing happened.

  The others followed, slowly. One by one. They took their seats.

  The Triarchs did not eat.

  But they watched.

  And the feast began.

  The meal unfolded in stages—delicate, deliberate, excessive.

  Each new dish arrived in silence, carried by attendants whose feet made no sound on the marble. Platters of smoked fish wrapped in vine leaves, roasted quail glazed in black honey, chilled citrus slices dusted in silver flakes. The chalices refilled themselves. Nothing was asked for. Everything appeared.

  John picked at his food. Rai did not touch hers. Helen ate slowly, like she was trying not to finish too soon. Dorian ate more than any of them, but without hunger—mechanically, like a man who knew better than to insult a host.

  RW licked at a ceramic bowl of something red and steaming. Whatever it was, she seemed content.

  Then Calix stood.

  The music ceased.

  "You’ve all done so well," he said, lifting his goblet. "So few ever make it this far. Fewer still with their minds intact."

  John looked up. The goblet caught the light, a shimmer of violet at its rim.

  "We are, as promised," Calix continued, "creatures of our word. You came seeking the path to Nekrosyne. You have earned it."

  Damarion gave a single nod.

  Thessala did not move, but her voice came anyway, low and even. "The gate will open."

  Calix paced slowly behind the table now, one hand trailing along its curved edge. "But understand—what lies beyond is not a prize. It is not another game. It is not something to be won."

  He paused behind Helen. She stiffened.

  "It is loss. It is grief. It is the undone and the unburied."

  He moved on.

  "And yet, you insist."

  John stood. "We do."

  Calix turned to face him fully. For the first time, the smile faded.

  "So be it."

  He raised his goblet.

  "Three shall pass."

  The air shifted.

  "John Graves, Rai of the Winded Vale, and RW, the Weaver’s Familiar. The gate will open for you."

  RW flicked her ears. Rai’s hand dropped to her lap, fingers curling. John nodded once.

  Helen set her cup down.

  "I want to go with them."

  Calix tilted his head. "Do you now?"

  She met his eyes. "I earned this."

  Damarion watched her, saying nothing. Thessala’s mask tilted, ever so slightly.

  "You did," Calix said.

  "I’m not asking for favor," Helen said. "I’m asking for passage."

  For a moment, Calix looked almost amused. Almost.

  He turned to the others. "What say you?"

  John didn’t hesitate. "She’s with us."

  Rai’s nod was small. RW gave a sound like a questioning chirp.

  Calix exhaled, long and theatrical.

  "Very well," he said. "Let it never be said we are without our soft hearts."

  He raised his goblet again.

  "Four shall pass."

  Thessala whispered, "For now."

  Dorian said nothing through it all. He kept his head low, his eyes on the table, as if by staying still he could avoid being noticed.

  But Calix noticed.

  "And what of our silent companion?" he said, tilting his goblet in Dorian’s direction. "You’ve been very quiet."

  Dorian looked up slowly, unsure whether to speak.

  "Perhaps," Calix mused, "since Helen volunteered herself, it is only fair that we offer one of our own. A balance. A symmetry."

  Damarion gave the faintest grunt of agreement.

  Thessala murmured, "Let the river decide."

  Calix smiled again. "Five shall pass—unless the ferryman says otherwise."

  And the feast resumed, but no one truly ate again.

  The music did not return.

  No one spoke after Calix’s declaration.

  Five shall pass.

  The number hung in the air. Around the crescent table, the survivors sat in stillness, as if they’d heard the verdict of a god—and perhaps they had.

  Calix returned to his seat. His smile had faded into something cooler, more ceremonial.

  He lifted his goblet. “Let us mark the moment, then.”

  The hall dimmed. Shadows deepened at the edges of the chamber as if recoiling from what came next.

  Damarion stepped forward—not loudly, not heavily, but with purpose. He raised a black chalice rimmed with molten gold.

  “To strength earned,” he said. “Through blade and burden.”

  He drank.

  Thessala did not rise. Her voice came soft and low, like a breeze stirring old curtains.

  “To truths endured,” she said. “And those yet to be revealed.”

  Her chalice tilted, the liquid within dark as night.

  Then Calix.

  “To bargains struck,” he said. “And debts that do not forget.”

  He raised his goblet last—and drank.

  Before them, five more cups appeared, filled to the brim.

  John took his.

  Rai’s hand hovered before she grasped hers.

  RW sniffed the surface of the bowl that had appeared at her paws. She lapped once, eyes narrowing.

  Helen lifted her cup slowly. Dorian followed.

  The five drank.

  The wine was cold, metallic, and laced with something older than flavor. It bit, then vanished, like it had never existed at all.

  When it was done, the Triarchs stood in unison.

  “The path awaits,” Thessala said.

  Calix gestured toward a wide set of doors at the far end of the hall. They had not been there before. They opened without sound.

  Flickering firelight poured from beyond.

  And with it—screams.

  Distant, layered, inhuman. Laughter, weeping, the clash of metal. Something roared. Something begged.

  John stood. Rai followed.

  Helen and Dorian moved next, RW slinking between them.

  They did not look back.

  The Triarchs watched in silence as the five passed through the gate.

  And then the doors closed.

  The hall was silent once more.