Chapter 3: The Price of Blood

Three days had passed since Cole discovered his mother's journal, three days of feigning normalcy while his mind churned with terrible possibilities. His uncle continued his charming facade at meals, asking thoughtful questions about Cole's adjustment to manor life, never once betraying the monster that lurked beneath his cultured exterior.

But Cole saw it now—the way Alistair's eyes lingered on his throat when he drank, the casual questions about his health and vitality, the almost proprietary satisfaction in his gaze. He was being evaluated like livestock, and the thought made his skin crawl.

Tonight would be different. Tonight, he would find the truth.

Cole waited until the manor settled into its familiar nocturnal rhythm—servants retired to their quarters, his uncle presumably asleep in his chambers, even the ever-present Kaelen nowhere to be seen. The west wing beckoned like a siren call, its secrets pulling at him with magnetic force.

But first, he needed answers from the source.

His mother's journal had mentioned Alistair's private study, where he kept his most sensitive research. If Cole was going to understand the full scope of his uncle's plans, that's where the evidence would be.

The study was on the manor's second floor, behind a door of dark mahogany carved with the same serpentine symbols that decorated the family crest. Cole's heart hammered against his ribs as he tested the handle, expecting resistance. Instead, it turned smoothly—either Alistair was supremely confident in his security, or he wanted Cole to find what lay within.

The room beyond was a temple to forbidden knowledge. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that seemed to whisper in languages Cole didn't recognize. Alchemical instruments gleamed on workbenches—distillation apparatus, crystalline vessels, and devices whose purposes he couldn't even guess. But it was the massive desk dominating the room's center that drew his attention, its surface covered with papers and an open journal.

Cole crept closer, his bare feet silent on the Persian carpet. The journal was bound in what looked like human skin, its pages covered with Alistair's precise handwriting. The entry currently visible made his blood freeze:

Day 47 of preparations. The celestial alignment approaches, and all elements fall into place. The boy's power manifests more strongly each day—I can sense it in his presence, the way reality bends subtly around him. Eleanor's bloodline runs true, praise the old gods.

The Remnants show increased agitation, responding to his proximity with something approaching hope. Foolish creatures. They will serve their purpose as witnesses to my ascension, nothing more.

Kaelen grows restless, his binding chafing more each day. I must remember to reinforce the runes before the ritual. His expertise will be crucial for the final transmutation, though I suspect he harbors romantic notions about the boy. Such weakness. When I achieve immortality, I will remake him into something more... compliant.

Cole turned the page with trembling fingers, finding detailed diagrams of ritual circles and anatomical charts marked with surgical precision. The heading at the top of the page made his knees buckle:

The Ritual of First Heir Sacrifice - Requirements for Successful Transmutation

What followed was a methodical breakdown of how to extract and process the "quintessential essence" from a McDowell bloodline heir. The clinical language couldn't disguise the horror—this was a manual for ritualistic murder, designed to steal not just Cole's life but his very soul.

The First Heir must be willing, one passage noted. Forced sacrifice corrupts the essence. The subject must choose death, believing it serves a greater purpose. Deception is not only permissible but essential.

Cole's vision blurred with rage and terror. His uncle hadn't brought him here out of familial duty—he'd lured him into an elaborate trap, planning to convince him to die willingly for some twisted apotheosis.

A sound from the corridor made him freeze. Footsteps, measured and confident, approaching the study. Cole dove behind the massive desk just as the door opened, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

"The preparations proceed smoothly," Alistair's voice filled the room, accompanied by the softer tread of a second person. "Three more days until the alignment peaks. Are the specimens ready?"

"As you commanded, my lord." The second voice was unfamiliar—cultured but nervous. "Though I must ask... is the boy truly ignorant of his fate?"

Alistair's laugh was silk over steel. "Cole is delightfully naive. He suspects something is amiss, of course—even he isn't that obtuse—but he has no conception of the true scope. By the time he understands, it will be far too late."

"And if he refuses to cooperate?"

"He won't." There was absolute certainty in Alistair's tone. "I know exactly which strings to pull. The boy's greatest weakness is his desperate need to belong, to be valued. When I reveal his 'destiny' as the key to preserving our family's power, he'll practically beg for the honor of sacrifice."

Cole bit down on his knuckle to stifle a sob of pure fury. The casual dismissal of his life, the contemptuous understanding of his loneliness—it was a violation more intimate than physical violence.

"Besides," Alistair continued, "should persuasion fail, there are other methods. Kaelen's binding extends to following orders, regardless of his personal feelings. He could easily restrain the boy if necessary."

The footsteps moved toward the desk, and Cole pressed himself against its side, hardly daring to breathe. Through a gap in the carved panels, he caught sight of his uncle's legs, close enough to touch.

"Show me the latest Remnant," Alistair commanded. "I want to ensure the transmutation holds for the ceremony."

The footsteps retreated, followed by the sound of a hidden panel opening. Cole waited until their voices faded before peering around the desk. The study appeared empty, but a section of the bookshelf had swung inward, revealing a passage that glowed with sickly green light.

Every rational part of Cole's mind screamed at him to flee, to run from the manor and never look back. But his mother's words echoed in his memory: Find the one who serves against his will. If Kaelen was bound to obey Alistair, if his cooperation was forced rather than willing, then perhaps...

Cole crept toward the hidden passage, following the sound of voices and the increasing stench of something rotting. The corridor beyond was carved from living stone, its walls lined with alchemical symbols that seemed to pulse with their own malevolent life. The green glow emanated from crystals embedded in the ceiling, casting everything in a nauseating light that made his skin look corpse-pale.

The passage opened into a vast chamber that defied the manor's architecture—it was far too large to fit within the building's footprint, carved from the bedrock itself. Tanks of bubbling fluid lined the walls, each containing shapes that might once have been human. But it was the central platform that drew Cole's horrified attention.

Three figures surrounded a metal table where something writhed in obvious agony. Alistair stood at the head, his hands glowing with the same green light as the crystals. Beside him, a thin man in scholar's robes took frantic notes. And at the table's side, his face a mask of controlled revulsion, stood Kaelen.

The thing on the table had been a woman once—Cole could tell from the bone structure, though everything else had been grotesquely altered. Her skin was mottled grey and black, stretched tight over limbs that bent in impossible directions. Scales had erupted along her spine, and her fingers had fused into claws. But worst of all were her eyes—human, aware, filled with desperate intelligence trapped in a nightmare of flesh.

"The neural pathways are integrating beautifully," Alistair observed, his tone clinical. "The reptilian modifications enhance physical capabilities while maintaining cognitive function. She'll make an excellent witness to the ritual."

"My lord," the scholar ventured nervously, "she appears to be in considerable distress. Perhaps a sedative—"

"Pain sharpens the mind," Alistair cut him off. "Besides, her suffering serves a purpose. The emotional resonance will amplify the ritual's power when combined with the heir's willing sacrifice."

Kaelen's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he said nothing. Cole could see the tension in his posture, the barely controlled fury in his amber eyes. This was someone serving against his will indeed.

"Kaelen," Alistair commanded without looking up from his work, "prepare the binding circle for transport. I want her in position before tomorrow evening."

"Yes, my lord." The words seemed torn from Kaelen's throat, and Cole noticed the way his left hand pressed briefly against his chest, as if something there caused him pain.

Cole had seen enough. He began to back away from the chamber, but in his haste, he bumped against a protruding stone. The sound was small—barely a scrape—but in the oppressive silence of the underground lair, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Alistair's head snapped up, his grey eyes scanning the passage entrance. "What was that?"

The scholar fumbled for a weapon, but Kaelen moved with inhuman speed, reaching the passage in three long strides. Cole found himself pressed against the stone wall, amber eyes boring into his with an intensity that made his knees weak.

For a heartbeat that felt like eternity, they stared at each other. Cole was certain Kaelen would cry out, would alert Alistair to his presence. Instead, the apprentice spoke in a voice pitched to carry:

"A loose stone, my lord. The foundation settles oddly in this part of the manor."

"Investigate it properly," Alistair ordered, his attention returning to his victim. "I won't have structural weaknesses compromising the ritual chamber."

Kaelen's hand shot out, grabbing Cole's wrist with bruising force. But instead of dragging him into the chamber, he pulled Cole deeper into the shadows of the passage, his body blocking the view from within.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Neither should you," Cole whispered back, and was surprised to see Kaelen flinch as if struck.

They stood frozen in the darkness, Kaelen's grip on his wrist like a shackle. This close, Cole could see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the tension that never left his shoulders, and something else—thin silver scars along his throat that looked almost like writing.

"Kaelen?" Alistair's voice echoed from the chamber. "Report."

"Just settling stone, my lord. No structural damage."

"Good. Return to your duties."

Kaelen waited until Alistair's attention was fully absorbed by his work before leaning close to Cole's ear. His breath was warm against Cole's skin, and when he spoke, his words were barely a breath of sound:

"Tomorrow night. The old oak grove beyond the east garden. If you want to live, be there."

He released Cole's wrist and stepped back, his expression returning to its familiar mask of cold control. But for just a moment, Cole had seen something else in those amber eyes—desperation, hope, and perhaps the beginning of alliance.

Cole fled through the manor's corridors, his mind reeling with everything he'd witnessed. The ritual was in three days. Alistair planned to murder him in the most horrific way possible, stealing not just his life but his very essence. The woman—the Remnant—would be forced to witness his death, her own suffering somehow amplifying the ritual's power.

But Kaelen had protected him, had arranged a meeting. The one who served against his will had revealed himself at last.

Back in his room, Cole pressed his back against the door and tried to process the full scope of his situation. His uncle was a monster who viewed him as nothing more than a source of power to be harvested. The manor was built on a foundation of torture and corrupted alchemy. And in three days, if he couldn't find a way to escape or fight back, he would die in agony while his murderer achieved some twisted form of immortality.

But he wouldn't face it alone. Kaelen's proposal echoed in his memory: a meeting, a chance for alliance, perhaps even hope.

Cole looked toward his hidden journal, thinking of his mother's words about compassionate alchemy, about love as the secret ingredient his uncle had never understood. If there was another way to use the power in his blood—a way that created rather than destroyed—then maybe, just maybe, he could turn his uncle's own weapons against him.

The serpent on the family crest wasn't just devouring its tail, Cole realized. It was being reborn through its own consumption, transformed by the act of destruction into something new and terrible and beautiful.

Tomorrow night, he would meet the one who served against his will.

Together, they would see if the McDowell legacy could be reforged in the fires of rebellion rather than sacrifice.