Climbing up the drain pipe, hugging the side of the house, wasn’t entirely easy. The melting snow of early spring made everything wet and impossible to hold onto. At least it still got dark quickly, so I knew I wouldn’t be seen. I just needed to get back inside, and everything would be fine. If I only got back inside my brother’s room, I could lock myself inside, breathe, then get going on my actual escape, not this running away and hiding for a couple of hours here and there.

  Placing my feet in the small crevices and bends of the pipe, I did my best to scale the slippery surface silently, an impossible task.

  When I was halfway up the pipe, I slipped. My foot was falling off the tiny purchase I had found and smacking against the side of the metal tube. I froze.

  Fuck.

  My parents definitely heard that. I’m screwed. I felt panic rising in my chest.

  No. No. No. I thought to myself, trying to quell the oncoming storm. I forced my body to keep moving upwards towards the still-open window. Just a few more feet, I kept telling myself. I just have to keep going. Just a little more. As if telling myself that now was going to make any difference. It hadn’t in the last thirteen years.

  As soon as my fingers could reach the windowsill, I hoisted myself up and over the windowsill, collapsing onto the rug. I let out hurried, ragged breaths as I forced myself to calm down and recuperate.

  Standing back up, I closed the window. Definitely a bit more violent than needed.

  I don’t have time to waste. It’s already nine, and I need to be done before midnight. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I knew I had to do. The ritual has to be completed.

  This is it. It’s finally time. Yann?k’s left, and for once I actually have the privacy of a locked door. Perfect. The only problem is that I don’t have the necessary things. They were still hiding under my bed in my room, on the other side of the manor. Damn me for being thorough, I guess. Cursing myself isn’t getting me anywhere; I need to get those things, or I’m just as fucked as Yann?k said. Picking myself up off his bed, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what was to come. If my parents didn’t find me and lock me up in the dungeons on my way to get my things, I could only pray that the ritual I was about to commit wouldn't be even worse.

  Anything to avoid becoming like them, I reminded myself. Ending up as another cog in the family machine was a worse fate than death. Hunting for sport. They’d never call it that, but that’s what they do, The Krovniki. Fucking monsters. If I ever had to hunt someone down and drain them on our altar, I would flay myself alive in protest. Thank the gods we never see them.

  Keeping my skin attached turns out to be great motivation to get the fuck out of this hellhole of a house. Not that I had ever treated it well. Just last week, I’d brought a knife to my skin just to manage the stress of our upcoming birthday. Mother treats it like some fucking celebration, like Yann?k and I don’t have to kill each other come tomorrow night. This family deserves what’s coming to it. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought. I am the one who will put an end to this freak show; I am the one who will save all those people from slaughter.

  Gods, I’m a fucking hero.

  I slipped out of Yann?k’s room on silent feet, each breath like a razor’s edge. The hallway was a tunnel of shadows so thick I felt them press against my skin. Ahead, my mother’s voice trickled down the corridor, lecturing about some tradition I couldn’t care less about. Keep her talking, I prayed to whoever she was talking to. Last time I clashed with her, the last time we had a family discussion, it ended with me screaming in frustration and my parents insisting on stricter rules.

  My heart hammered as I reached the stairs. I inched up the stairs of the turret, sidestepping the fourth step that shrieked like a banshee if touched. At the top, the door to my room yawned wide, its hush so heavy I could almost taste it. My body screaming to run. I darted to my room, slammed the door, and slid to the floor. Under the bed lay my hidden arsenal: a small pouch of gold coins that rattled like restless spirits, the ritual dagger whose blade promised blood, and the tiny brazier I’d filched from my mother’s cabinet. Clutching them, I crept back toward Yann?k’s door, footsteps muffled against the threadbare rug. Resolve settled over me; I wouldn’t let fear chain me this time.

  A sudden click froze me mid-step. My chest tightened. Footsteps echoed, slow, grinding closer. Images of the dungeon flashed behind my eyes: the snap of fingers, the wrench of teeth, each wound a shard of my soul. I wanted to scream until every last ounce of terror spilled out. This was it. I forced my trembling hand around the handle and slipped inside Yann?k’s room, closing the door with a muted thud. I locked it, pressed my back against the wood, and let the breath I’d been holding storm out of me.

  I’d made it this far. Now comes the hard part: the ritual.

  With all the components laid out on the floor in front of me, it’s hard not to realize just how insane this actually is.

  Fuck. This is gonna hurt.

  Gold coins, a month's savings, all about to go up in smoke. The price of freedom, I guess. It could be worse. The dagger, the brazier, one cruel potion. Suppose you can even call it that, as much as it is just molten metal and a dash of blood. Dragons, greedy bastards. But she just so happens to be the goddess of fire. I don’t have the luxury to pick and choose. Even though I’m giving this draconic asshole my soul willingly, she still wants payment as if I’m a chore to have around.

  Maybe Zhravel wasn’t the best choice now that I’m really considering it, but it’s a bit too late now. Rather, a bad yet safe option than the risk of failure. I’m not stupid.

  Digging through Yann?k's stuff, I found his stash of firewine. Not that he’s ever been good at hiding it. Not that anyone ever came looking for it other than me.

  “Thanks, dear brother, for being such an alcoholic,” I laughed out loud.

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  If I’m to melt gold without a reliable forge, I need something to get a good fire going. Whichever alchemist had come up with the idea for mage coal was saving my ass right now. His creation was my solution to my lack of a forge, since it would get incredibly hot with just a dash of wine and a few casts of firebolt.

  “Maybe an alchemist would have been a good career?” I asked myself.

  Talking to myself has become a bad habit after so many nights spent locked away in the dungeon. It tends to get lonely with just me and the torture devices in there.

  After I finish this, there won't be any more torture… I hope so. At least, I expect a malevolent goddess to come up with something more creative than my parents ever could.

  “Don’t get distracted, Leo,” I berated myself, as if that’s gonna help my racing thoughts. Placing the small brazier on the floor, I poured the wine into it and struck a match. Putting a flame to the surface of the wine instantly ignited the crimson liquid. The signature smell of burnt grapes filled the small room, and I already wanted to gag.

  I moved a small bowl into position over the roaring flame and placed my little heap of gold coins into it. Waiting for them to melt as I readied the knife for the last ingredient of this unholy tincture. They made the curved blade for ritualistic bloodletting. I’ve seen it used enough times to know exactly how it cuts and stores the blood for later use. The perfect tool for the job. As the gold melted slowly, I held my hand over the pot, waiting for the right moment. It had to be perfect, or this would all be for nothing. The second it boils, I cut.

  According to the old tome I found tucked away between the crates in the basement, this was the traditional method. That this family would have a tome of traditional soul-binding rituals did not surprise me in the slightest. The book was old to the point of falling apart, and I sure didn’t help. Not that I really care about this book surviving anything that is to come. It’s probably this damn book that has made my family into what it is. As soon as I’m done with it, I’ll burn it, just like everything else.

  I find it quite funny that the last thing Yann?k said before he left was,

  Don’t burn the house down.

  When that is exactly what I intend to do, come tomorrow night. Hopefully, any trace of this horrific place would just be ash in the wind. However harsh or volatile people may say I am, I know that what I’m doing is for the greater good. Not just getting myself out, but saving so many innocent lives; more importantly, the lives of my niece and nephews. Those sweet kids, I can’t stand the thought of them having to go through what we will. Knowing that only one of the three would survive. Thank the gods that they don’t share this house with us; the fire won’t reach them. For all the bad things I’ve done and I am doing, I hope this will at least even the playing field. The loud pop of a bubble brought my attention back to the pot now filled with melted gold. The coins had created a thick sludge of molten riches. I pressed the blade’s cold steel against my forearm, feeling its edge bite through skin with a whisper of resistance before tearing open a deep, pulsing wound. Of all the scars caked and faded across my arms, this one would blaze the brightest. A deliberate mark, unburdened by the many failures that litter my flesh. This gash alone mattered. This was my last desperate claim to power. My fingers clamped closed around the knife’s handle as scarlet droplets dribbled down, each bead of blood catching the light like summer rain. The blade cut deeper, peeling back layers of skin and fat to reveal the slick, pale muscle beneath. My vision narrowed to the slick sheen of exposed tissue, the raw red sinew quivering with every heartbeat. The cut widened as I shifted, the tearing flesh sighing in protest.

  The sight was grotesquely delicious. Pain, sharp, incandescent, roared along my nerves. I welcomed its rush. A thrill of cold trickled up my arm, pricking my fingertips with numb delight. Through the ragged incision, I watched my forearm flex: the muscle contracting and releasing in ragged spasms, each motion forcing another drop of blood to snake down my arm and into the bowl.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The dance of blood and muscle repelled and obsessed me in equal measure. I felt a perverse kinship to the rituals I’d once condemned my family for. Every drop I’d watched there, every sacrificial cut I’d sanctioned, coursed through me now. I am no different from them; madness bound by blood. With a trembling grasp, I lifted the knife again, pressing its cold blade into the ragged tear I’d already made. There was no satisfying slice this time, just a rough rip through raw tissue, tendon shredding like frayed rope under the edge. A fierce scream clawed at my throat, but I had nothing to bite, nothing to muffle the sound of my flesh protesting. There had been no plan, no thought beyond the searing agony. No fear, only the blinding white of pain. Warm blood streamed in a steady ribbon, painting my forearm a living map of terror. Only when pins and needles pricked at my fingertips did I register the reality of what I’d done.

  The wound yawned across my forearm, half a finger’s depth, the length of my palm: raw and bleeding, a crimson testament to my recklessness. My breath caught in my throat as reality rushed back. This…this was beyond control.

  Shit.

  Hurrying to my feet, I stumbled towards Yann?k’s dresser. Clutching my arm to try to keep the blood in as the edges of my vision darkened. I lost far too much blood, certainly more than the ritual needed. Why had I been dumb enough to do it on the rug? I cursed myself as I dragged blood across the floor. Thankfully, Yann?k has a lot of clothes he’s not going to miss. The guy wears the same three shirts and pants day in and out. I tore one of his shirts to pieces and stuffed the cotton into the open wound. Hopefully, it will slow the bleeding at least a bit. I’m still alive, that’s what’s important. I can still finish this. I just got a bit carried away.

  Kneeling back down on the rug, I pulled a spoon from the bag of materials and began stirring the soon-to-be potion. The mixture slowly turning a sickly shade of orange. Like that of a rotting pumpkin. Then she spoke, a cacophony of voices threatening to split my head wide open. Though I couldn’t make out the words she was trying to tell me, I knew exactly what she was saying. The magical mess of gods, I suppose.

  Drink up, little star.

  She hissed, the voices coming from what felt like every corner of the room. I stared down at the mixture, hesitating. Every way this could go wrong was running through my mind as I picked up the bowl. The metal branded my fingertips on contact, flesh sizzling audibly as I forced the rim against my lips, already split and weeping.

  The unholy communion. Molten gold and my own blood crashed onto my tongue like liquid lightning. Not honey, not wax, but molten lead that instantly burned my taste buds to ash. My remaining teeth cracked from the thermal shock. A scream died, strangled in my throat as my palate didn't just burn but liquefied, the roof of my mouth collapsing inward. Every nerve in my body fired simultaneously, my spine contorting so violently I heard vertebrae snap. Still, I forced more down.

  My throat burned with each swallow, the potion eating through tissue like acid through parchment. Blood vessels ruptured, flooding my mouth with copper and salt. My lungs crystallized, shattering with each desperate gasp, expelling not only smoke but chunks of blackened organ matter that spattered against my chin. The concoction carried the taste of death, the suffering of everyone who'd ever died screaming. It crawled through me with scorching hate, a parasite devouring me from within to make room for something else. When it breached my stomach lining, reality fractured. My skin split along invisible seams, revealing not blood but pouring from within as my body became nothing but a vessel for pure, unfiltered agony. A lightning rod for unholy wrath that threatened to destroy me.

  Though every nerve possible was firing faster than a Kostryn execution squad, I felt like falling asleep. I knew this ritual was going to be absolute hell on my body. Drinking molten metal, what sane person would do that? Clearly, I’ve lost my sanity somewhere along the way to this point. I didn’t even have the strength to laugh at my own ridiculous thoughts. Every breath is a stabbing pain in my disintegrating lungs. I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I must have.

  When I opened them, I wasn’t in Yann?k’s room.