Bloodstained: Ritual Of The Night Platforms Novels & Stories

Aurora latched on eagerly, sucking with slow, deep pulls that sent sparks of pleasure through Sophia’s body. “Let them come,” Sophia murmured, voice low and dark. “We’ll give them exactly what they think they want.” The ritual “Seeds of Betrayal” began under the blood moon. Over 68 million viewers flooded the encrypted global stream. The sanctuary was packed — nearly one hundred and twenty bodies from the merged bloodlines. The air was stifling, thick with coconut oil, jasmine, sea salt, warm milk, sweat, and the sharp undercurrent of ambition and distrust.

Within seconds, the rogue Blood-born was nothing more than a silent, shredded mass of dark, dead flesh in the dirt. Riheirk spun around, his chest heaving under his leather armor, his hands completely coated in foul black blood. Solar was lying in the heather, her breathing shallow and frantic. The brilliant golden fur around her shoulder was rapidly staining with a dark, toxic crimson. The Blood-born bite was highly venomous, the black corruption already visibly tracing like spiderwebs beneath her skin, threatening to shut down her core. Riheirk dropped to his knees beside her, his massive frame shaking violently—not from desire this time, but from an absolute, suffocating terror.

“The old power stirring beneath us. Shadowveil has been waiting for centuries. Waiting for the right blood. The right sacrifice. The right *moment*.” The platform shook harder. Several pack members in the crowd stumbled and fell, their cries of fear rising above the roar of the flames. The ground split in multiple places now, dark energy leaking upward like smoke from the pits of hell itself. Distant howls of pain echoed from deep within the territory as the ritual’s influence spread like a plague, claiming lives far beyond the execution square. I pulled against my chains with everything I had left, ignoring the way the silver ate deeper into my flesh. Blood ran down my wrists.

My head is spinning, the world tilting around me, but I say, “I'm not done.” Killian’s eyes flick to my shoulder, then meets mine. “How are you still standing?” It's then I remember I'm losing blood. The blood spilling from my shoulder makes my limbs heavy, and my vision flickers. I can feel the cold creeping in, and I stagger backwards. My back slams against the wall, and I slide down to the ground, my body too weak to hold me up. My consciousness slips in and out as I fight to stay awake. I look up at Killian. He's just standing there, watching me.

The house is a living thing, a collection of creaking bones and drafty corridors, and it breathes the same air that I do. But you—you are the one who provides the rhythm. Every night, the ritual begins the same way. You are in the basement, surrounded by the scent of mildew and the suffocating weight of history stored in cardboard boxes. Your hand reaches for the light switch. Click. The light dies, and the game begins.

Their bodies began to shake violently as it jerk uncontrollably while blood started pouring from their noses, mouths, eyes, ears, and even their fingertips. As the blood flowed from the three children, it did not touch the ground. Instead, the crimson droplets hovered in midair as if it was controlled by an unseen force. Slowly, the blood drifted across the clearing and gathered above the ritual table before pouring itself into the empty bowl resting at its center. The bowl began vibrating violently, and faint crimson symbols slowly emerged across its surface. “Vareth na solum iraka ven… Morath el’shira ven torak nai…

The second day bled into the third with relentless speed, as though time itself conspired to drag the mating ceremony closer. Blackthorn Keep thrummed with final preparations. Banners of black and silver snapped in the wind above the battlements. Torches were set along every path leading to the sacred grove where the rite would take place beneath the blood moon. The air carried the sharp scent of pine smoke and roasting meat from the kitchens, mingling with the metallic tang of freshly sharpened blades. Warriors drilled in the courtyard, their breaths fogging in the cold, while elders chanted low prayers to the Moon Goddess in the chapel tower.

He was utterly still. The others were all pacing around on all fours, beast-like, their eyes blank. He was slumped against one corner of his enclosure. His head was in shadow and I could tell that his breathing was even. I assumed he was sleeping, but as I got closer to the angled panels, I could see that there was blood oozing out from the soles of his feet. There was scar tissue there which looked like it had not been allowed to heal properly.

And I know of a way to produce the necessary amount of magical energy: the Blood Ritual. It is a banned ritual, highly taboo. I would have never even known about it, if it weren’t for all the books Ann used to smuggle from the Forbidden Section of the library. The ritual needs blood of two magical beings. It also needs to be performed when both the Altairain moons are full. I will of course be offering my blood. And I’ll have to ask Aldrich if he's willing to offer his blood.

“Blood binds thee.” It all is a little blurry. The ingredients, the words of the spell. My mother had everything all laid out, words of summoning memorized. I slide my sleeve up my arm, revealing several red cuts. Some are scabbed. Some are still bleeding, but I take the knife and bring it down on a patch of untouched skin. I don’t even flinch at the sting as the blade drags across my flesh. Emotionless, I watch droplets of my blood mix together with the other ingredients and Mr. Newbury’s blood. “And my blood summons thee.”