Chapter 8: The Ritual of Blood

The morning of the first trial dawned cold and gray. I stood in the corridor outside the Council chamber, my hands trembling, my heart pounding so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. Around me, the other competitors waited in silence—shifters from a dozen different packs, their faces hard and their eyes empty.

Niklas stood apart, his back against the stone wall, arms crossed. He hadn't looked at me since we left the cave, but I felt him. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every flicker of his storm-gray eyes in my direction when he thought I wasn't watching.

"Competitors," Vera's voice echoed. "Enter."

The doors swung open.

The Council chamber had been transformed. The thirteen thrones still stood in their arc, but the center of the room was cleared. A large stone basin sat on the floor, its rim carved with unfamiliar, ancient symbols that seemed to pulse with a faint, reddish light. In the center of the basin, a fire burned—not orange or yellow, but red, the color of blood.

"This is the Ritual of Blood," Vera announced, her voice carrying through the chamber. "The first trial of the Competition. Each of you will approach the basin and offer your most painful memory. You will cut your palm and let your blood fall into the fire. The fire will show us your truth. And the Council will judge."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"The strongest memory," Vera continued, "is the one that causes the most pain. The competitor whose memory burns brightest will be declared the winner of this trial."

I looked at Niklas. His face was a mask of stone, but his hands, clenched at his sides, were white-knuckled.

"What's the prize?" someone asked.

Vera smiled. "The winner receives the remains of Hasan Demir. The half-blood's bones."

My blood turned to ice. "His bones?" I stepped forward. "You have my father's bones?"

"The Council has many things," Vera said smoothly. "Including the bodies of those who have crossed us. Your father died in service to the Council. His remains have been… preserved."

"You've been holding him hostage. Even in death."

"Careful, half-blood." Vera's eyes glittered. "You are here as a competitor, not an accuser."

Niklas's hand touched my elbow—just a brush, a warning. Don't, his eyes said. I stepped back.

The ritual began. One by one, competitors approached the basin, cut their palms, and let their blood fall into the red fire. One by one, the flames showed their pain.

A Mongolian shifter relived the death of his father, the fire showing him kneeling in the snow, his father's blood on his hands. A Siberian woman relived the loss of her litter—stillborn pups she had carried for months, the fire showing her holding their small, cold bodies. An Alaskan man relived his banishment from his pack, the fire showing him walking away from everything he had ever known.

Each memory burned brightly. Each competitor wept, or growled, or screamed. But none of them burned as brightly as what came next.

"Elif Demir."

Vera's voice cut through the chamber. "You're next."

I walked to the basin. The fire was hot—hotter than it should have been. I could feel it on my face, my hands, my chest.

"Your most painful memory," Vera said. "Offer it to the flames."

I closed my eyes. And I remembered.

I was ten years old.

My mother stood in the doorway of the basement. Her face was hard. Her eyes were empty.

"Please, Mom," I begged. "Please don't lock me down here. I'll be good. I promise I'll be good."

"You're not my daughter," she said. "You're a monster. And monsters belong in cages."

She closed the door. The lock clicked. And I was alone in the dark.

I opened my eyes. The fire was roaring, flames leaping toward the ceiling, red, gold, and white-hot. The Council members leaned forward. The other competitors stared. And in the center of the flames, I saw her: my mother, walking away from the basement door. Not looking back. Never looking back.

I cut my palm with the obsidian knife Dimitri handed me. The pain was sharp, immediate, grounding. I held my hand over the basin and let my blood fall.

The fire exploded. For a moment, the entire chamber was filled with light—so bright I couldn't see, so hot I couldn't breathe. And then it was gone. The flames returned to their normal size. The symbols on the basin stopped pulsing. The Council sat in stunned silence.

"Well," Vera said finally. "That was… impressive."

I stepped back from the basin, my hand still bleeding. "Who's next?" I asked.

Niklas was next. He walked to the basin with the same cold grace he did everything else. His face was unreadable. His hands were steady. But I saw it: the tremor in his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell a little too fast.

"Your memory," Vera said.

Niklas closed his eyes. And the fire showed us everything.

A forest. Night.

A boy with honey-colored hair, holding a dark-haired girl in his arms.

"I'll come back for you," the boy said. "I promise."

The girl smiled. "Don't forget me."

"Never."

And then the guards came. They tore the girl from the boy's arms. She screamed. She reached for him. She begged. And the boy—the boy let go. He stood there, frozen, as they dragged her away. He didn't fight. He didn't run after her. He just… stood. And watched. And did nothing.

The fire burned brighter than mine had. Brighter than anyone's. The flames turned white. The stone basin cracked. The Council members rose from their thrones, their faces masks of shock and something else—something that looked like fear.

Niklas opened his eyes. He was crying. Silent tears streamed down his face, his jaw clenched, his hands shaking. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." He cut his palm, his blood fell into the fire. And the flames went out.

The chamber was silent. Vera looked at the other Council members. They nodded.

"The winner of the first trial," Vera announced, "is Niklas Vollbrecht."

Niklas didn't react. He just stood there, staring at the dead fire, his blood still dripping from his hand.

"But," Vera continued, "the Council has decided that the prize—Hasan Demir's remains—will go to the competitor with the second strongest memory." She turned to Anastasia. "Anastasia Volkov."

Anastasia stepped forward. Her face was calm, composed, but her eyes were triumphant.

"Your memory," Vera said.

Anastasia smiled. And the fire relit itself.

Anastasia's memory was different. It wasn't about loss or grief or pain. It was about power. She was standing in a field of snow, surrounded by the bodies of her enemies. Her hands were red with blood. Her face was splattered with it. And she was laughing. "I am the wolf," she said in the memory. "And you are nothing." The fire burned—bright, but not as bright as Niklas's, not as bright as mine. But it was enough.

"The winner of the first trial," Vera said, "is Niklas Vollbrecht. But the prize goes to Anastasia Volkov."

Two guards appeared from the shadows, carrying a wooden chest—black, ancient, bound with iron. They set it at Anastasia's feet. She opened it. Inside were bones. Human bones. Yellowed with age, cracked and broken in places, but unmistakably human. My father's bones.

"Give them to me," I said.

Anastasia looked at me. Her smile was cold. "No."

"Those are my father's bones."

"Your father belonged to the Council. And now his bones belong to me." She closed the chest. "If you want them, you'll have to earn them."

"How?"

"Win the Competition. Beat me in the final trial. Prove that you're more than just a half-blood with a famous father." She turned and walked away, the chest in her arms.

I started after her.

"Elif." Niklas's hand caught my wrist. "Don't."

"She has my father—"

"And she'll use him to bait you. Don't let her."

I stopped. My whole body was shaking. "I can't just let her take him."

"You won't." Niklas's voice was low, fierce. "We'll get him back. Together. I promise."

I looked into his eyes. And for a moment, I believed him.

The chamber was emptying. Competitors filed out, whispering. Council members retreated. Guards extinguished torches. I was about to leave when a voice stopped me.

"Elif Demir."

I turned. A man stood in the shadows. I hadn't seen him before, but now I couldn't look away. He was tall, broad-shouldered. His face was weathered, lined with scars and something darker. His eyes were black—completely black, with no iris, no pupil, no humanity.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He stepped into the light. His clothes were ragged, stained. His hair was long and matted. Around his neck, he wore a necklace of wolf teeth. Dozens of them.

"My name is Milos," he said. His voice was rough, accented. Balkan, maybe. "And I know the secret hidden in those bones."

My heart stopped. "What secret?"

Milos smiled. It was not a kind smile. "Your father wasn't just a half-blood," he said. "He was a descendant. The last of a line that should have ended centuries ago."

"What are you talking about?"

"The First Wolf." Milos's black eyes gleamed. "The creature who created our kind. The one who walked the earth before humans, before wolves, before anything."

"The First Wolf is a myth."

"Your father thought so too. Until he found the truth." Milos stepped closer. "The First Wolf didn't die. He slept. And his blood—his true blood—flows through the veins of his descendants." He reached out and touched my face. I flinched. "You're not a half-blood, Elif Demir," he said. "You're the granddaughter of the First Wolf. The Ulu Kurt. The original."

The chamber spun. "That's not possible."

"And yet, here you are." Milos stepped back. "The bones in that chest? They're not just your father's remains. They're the key. The map to where the First Wolf sleeps."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want the same thing you do." His smile widened. "I want to wake him."

Before I could respond, the chamber doors burst open. Niklas stood in the doorway, his eyes wild. When he saw Milos, his face went pale.

"Get away from her," he growled.

Milos laughed. "So protective. Just like your father."

"Leave."

"For now." Milos bowed—mockingly. "But we'll meet again, Elif Demir. When you're ready to learn the truth." He walked past Niklas and disappeared into the corridor.

Niklas crossed the chamber in three strides and grabbed my arms. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine." My voice was shaking. "Niklas, he said—he said I'm not a half-blood. He said I'm the granddaughter of the First Wolf."

Niklas's face went pale. "That's not possible," he whispered.

"That's what I said."

"The First Wolf is a legend. A story they tell pups to scare them."

"Milos didn't seem like he was telling a story."

Niklas pulled me against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, tight and warm and safe. "We'll figure this out," he said. "Together."

I closed my eyes and let myself believe him. But in the back of my mind, Milos's words echoed: You're the granddaughter of the First Wolf. And somewhere deep inside me, the wolf stirred. Not with fear. With recognition.