Chapter 6 The Blood Altar

Jameson stood in silence as the Blood Guards surrounded him, their formation leaving no chance of escape. The mountain fortress felt nothing like Blackstone Manor. There were no gardens or elegant halls built to show off a noble family's wealth. Everything here had been built for one purpose alone.

The towering walls were carved from black stone that had endured centuries of wind and rain. Every tower and archway carried the weight of an ancient history. Jameson couldn't shake the feeling that this place had existed long before the Crimson Dominion was ever founded.

"Move," one of the guards ordered.

Jameson obeyed without hesitation. Resistance would accomplish nothing now.

Escorted by the guards, he began climbing the enormous staircase that wound its way up the mountainside. The stone steps were broad enough for dozens of people to walk abreast, yet the only sound filling the morning air was the steady rhythm of boots striking the ancient stone.

As they continued their climb, more processions merged onto the same path from different roads leading through the mountains.

Jameson studied the banners fluttering above them. None of the crests were familiar, but every procession followed the same pattern: mounted guards surrounding a black carriage, priests and servants walking close behind.

It was no different from House Valerius. Every great house had brought an offering to the Blood Altar.

Most of the other servants kept their heads down, refusing to look at anyone. Others stared ahead with empty expressions, as if they'd already accepted whatever waited at the summit. Jameson wondered if they felt what he did. The fear that had gripped him when the decree was announced had quietly disappeared, leaving only a heavy emptiness behind.

The climb felt endless. With every step, the air grew colder and the wind stronger. By the time they reached the summit, Jameson's breathing had turned heavy, not from exhaustion but from the sight stretching out before him.

The Blood Altar stood at the center of a massive circular plaza carved into the mountain itself. Stone pillars surrounded the sacred ground, each covered in symbols older than the Dominion or any house that ruled it. Time had worn the carvings down, yet they still radiated a power Jameson could feel through the soles of his feet.

Beyond the altar, rows of stone seats rose like an arena, every seat filled. Pureblood nobles from across the Crimson Dominion had gathered to watch. Some wore crimson robes stitched with gold thread, others stood in polished black armor bearing their family crests. Elderly lords and ladies sat in the finest seats, calm and confident, like people who'd ruled for generations.

High above the plaza, on a raised platform, waited seven hooded figures in crimson robes, their faces hidden in shadow. They neither spoke nor moved, standing more like statues than people.

The guards led Jameson across the plaza while hundreds of eyes tracked his every step. Some nobles watched with curiosity, others with indifference. A few even smiled. Jameson refused to lower his head. He'd spent his life bowing to people who thought him beneath them. If these were his final moments, he'd meet them with his eyes open.

Near the altar, another servant already waited between two guards. He looked no older than Jameson. Their eyes met for a moment. Neither smiled. Neither spoke. There were no words for what was coming.

One procession after another arrived until twelve servants stood before the altar. Twelve offerings.

A priest in long black ceremonial robes stepped into the center of the plaza, silver hair spilling over his shoulders as he raised both hands toward the crimson sky.

"The Blood Moon bears witness," he proclaimed, his voice rolling across the mountain. "The covenant shall be honored."

Every noble rose. The seven Council members descended their platform with slow, measured steps until they stood before the altar.

"The offerings," one of them said.

The guards moved at once. Jameson felt the shackles come off his wrists, and for a brief moment hope flickered inside him. It vanished just as fast when heavier chains wrapped around his arms, chest, and waist, the cold iron biting into his skin.

They led him to one of twelve stone platforms circling the altar. The moment he stepped onto his, he saw the dark crimson stains soaked into the ancient stone. Years of rain and wind hadn't erased them. He didn't need anyone to tell him what they were.

Not fresh blood. The blood of countless offerings who had stood exactly where he stood now. Generations had died on this mountain.

The guards fixed his chains to iron rings set into the stone, then stepped back. Jameson pulled against the restraints. They didn't move, not even slightly. Accepting the futility of it, he lifted his eyes to the sky.

Though the sun hadn't set, a deep crimson glow had already begun spreading across the heavens. The Blood Moon was rising early, bathing the mountain in red light that made every shadow seem alive. A cold wind swept the plaza, carrying an unnatural stillness with it.

The symbols on the pillars began to glow, one after another, until every carving around the altar blazed crimson. A low hum rose from beneath the mountain, the vibration climbing through the stone under Jameson's feet, growing stronger with each heartbeat.

Many nobles bowed their heads. Others closed their eyes and whispered old prayers. Even the Blood Guards stepped back from the altar, leaving only the seven Council members standing near the sacred stone.

The priest took a long silver blade from an attendant, its edge catching the crimson light like it had already been dipped in blood. Without a word, he walked to the first offering.

The young servant closed his eyes. The blade flashed. A cry tore through the silence.

Blood ran through the channels carved into the altar, twisting across the stone before vanishing into its center. The glowing symbols burned brighter. The priest moved to the second offering, then the third. With each sacrifice, more blood fed the altar, and the crimson light swelled until the whole plaza seemed to glow beneath the moon.

Jameson's heart pounded harder as the distance between him and the priest shrank with every step, until no one stood between them at all.

The old priest stopped in front of him. For a long moment, neither man spoke. Their eyes met, and Jameson found no hatred there, no cruelty, no pity. Only the steady look of a man carrying out a duty he'd performed many times before.

The priest raised the silver blade above his head.

"This offering," he said, his voice carrying across the silent mountain, "shall complete the covenant."

The blade began its descent.