The chamber was lit by a single circle of candles, their flames bending faintly toward the center, as though pulled by something unseen. At the heart of the circle lay the ritual knife. Its blade gleamed with a hungry light, polished so sharply it seemed eager to draw blood.
The elders stood around the circle, their robes heavy, their faces shadowed. My father's presence anchored them all — stern, immovable, unyielding.
"Seliora," he said, voice firm as stone. "Every Bride must give the Veil her devotion. Take the knife."
I stepped forward. The silence of the room pressed against my ribs, heavier than the knife itself. My gown whispered across the floor. My face remained flawless, unreadable.
I bent, lifted the blade. Cold bit into my palm through the hilt, familiar as the lessons carved into my childhood. The steel reflected candlelight, shards of flame dancing along its edge.
"Cut," my father commanded. "Your hand, your vow."
The elders leaned forward, waiting. They wanted obedience, fear hidden beneath ritual. They wanted to see me yield, as all before me had yielded.
I raised the knife. My face did not tremble. My pulse did not betray me.
The edge kissed my palm — shallow, deliberate, precise. Blood welled dark and slow, but my eyes never left the circle of candles. I had given them what they asked, but not what they expected.
I did not bow my head. I did not whisper the vow. I stood silent, letting the blood fall as if by my choice alone.
The elders shifted uneasily, uncertain if this silence was obedience or defiance. My father's gaze narrowed, searching for weakness. He would find none.
I lowered the blade, calm, steady. Inside, I thought: If they want my devotion, they will take it from me by force. I will not give it freely. Not to them. Not to the Veil.
The blood fell into the circle, hissing faintly as it touched the stone. The chamber seemed to breathe in response.
But my silence remained sharper than the knife in my hand.