A Tithe Of Blood

The morning air clung with silence.

Elira stood by the crooked fence, her shawl pulled tight over her shoulders, though the chill that rattled her bones came from within. Behind her, the cottage door remained closed. Lilin had cried herself to sleep in her bed, refusing to speak the night before. Mr. Smith had not said goodbye.

The sky was overcast, thick clouds smothering the horizon. No birds sang.

Th

It was black as spilled ink, its silver-rimmed wheels cutting through the mist like blades. Two horses massive, midnight-colored, with eyes like burning coals stood waiting without breath or sound. The driver, a gaunt man in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat, did not look at her. He only nodded and opened the door.

Elira did not cry. She had done her weeping in silence, in the hours between midnight and morning, staring at the thatch ceiling and wondering if the wind had always sounded like it was whispering her name.

She stepped into the carriage, skirts brushing the velvet-cushioned seats. The door shut behind her with a finality that rang through her chest like a funeral bell.

The wheels creaked into motion.

She watched the village disappear through the window Nicholas's house, the river path, the old birch grove where they had first kissed beneath the rain two summers ago. Gone, one by one, swallowed by distance and trees.

The hills fell behind.

The countryside changed the farther they went what was golden and open became tight and shadowed. Trees grew closer together. Ivy strangled old fences. The sky darkened though the sun still tried to push through.

Somewhere past midday, they passed a crumbling stone wall carved with strange symbols. The air grew colder.

Elira leaned her head against the carriage wall and closed her eyes. Her body ached with stillness. She imagined Nicholas riding after her, sword drawn, brave and foolish and glowing with youth.

But he would not come.

She mustn't hope for such things.

The estate appeared just before dusk black stone, towering spires that cut the sky, windows like watching eyes. The carriage passed through wrought-iron gates crested with the emblem of House Calvorn: a moon pierced by a single fang.

The estate courtyard was dead quiet. Servants moved like shadows. None spoke.

The driver opened her door. Still, he said nothing.

A woman waited on the steps. She was older, small-boned, with a pinched mouth and hollow cheeks. Her apron was spotless, her gaze unreadable.

"Elira Smith?" she asked.

Elira nodded.

"I am Marta. You will follow the rules, and you will survive. Disobey them, and you will not."

Elira stared.

Marta's voice softened slightly. "Come, girl. I'll show you to your chamber."

They passed through long corridors hung with ancient paintings women with pale throats, men with sharp eyes, battles and banquets soaked in blood-tinted oil. The stone floors were cold even through Elira's shoes.

Her room was small. A narrow bed, a washbasin, a stool. The window was barred.

"Water is warm," Marta said. "You'll be summoned tomorrow. Be ready."

Elira turned to her. "Is he—will the lord—"

"He doesn't speak to new blood on the first night," Marta replied. "You are not prey, not yet. Just property."

Something flickered behind the old woman's eyes. Pity, perhaps. Or fear.

She left.

Elira sat on the bed. Her hands were shaking. Not from fear of the bloodletting she had made peace with that. But with the quiet, the stone, the knowing that her life no longer belonged to her.

She was too tired to cry.

The candle burned low when she heard footsteps slow, heavy, certain.

Her door opened.

He stood in the doorway.

Tall. Regal. Unmoving.

Eyes black as obsidian, hair like dark silk. He wore no cloak, only a high-collared shirt of deep wine red and tailored black trousers.

Lord Calvorn.

He said nothing. Only looked at her. His gaze was cold, curious. Her breath caught in her throat.

The silence stretched.

Then, as quietly as he came, he turned and walked away.The door clicked shut.

Elira sat in the dark, heart beating like a war drum in her chest.

Elira awoke to the sound of the bell.

It rang once low and heavy, like something dragged from the earth's belly. Her eyes snapped open.

For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the cold stone wall met her gaze. The barred window. The stiffness in her limbs. The truth.

She sat up slowly, the thin wool blanket tangled around her legs. Dawn had barely touched the horizon, yet the corridor outside buzzed faintly with movement.

A knock three taps, then a pause, came at her door.

She opened it to find Marta standing there with a folded grey dress in her arms and a pair of leather shoes.

"Put this on. You begin today," the old housemaid said, pressing the garments into Elira's hands without a word of greeting.

Elira nodded, her voice lost somewhere in her throat.

The dress was plain, long-sleeved, high-necked, and rough to the touch. It smelled of lavender and old stone. She dressed quickly, fastening the small row of buttons along the side, and ran a wet cloth over her face from the washbasin.

Outside, the corridor stretched long and dim. Sconces glowed along the stone walls, casting flickering light against tall portraits whose eyes followed her like silent judges. She kept close to Marta as they moved down staircases and along winding halls.

"The estate has rules," Marta said without looking at her. "You rise at the first bell. You sleep at last. You do not speak unless spoken to. You are not to wander beyond the servants' quarters or the blood chamber.

The west wing is forbidden. The tower is forbidden. And above all…"

She paused, glancing at Elira with a flicker of something sharper than warning.

"…You never, under any circumstances, enter the master's hall without being summoned."

Elira swallowed. "And if I do?"

Marta's mouth thinned. "You won't."

They entered a vast kitchen alive with the clatter of iron pots, firelight dancing along the blackened hearths.

At least a dozen servants moved in synchronised silence kneading dough, slicing fruit, scrubbing tiles. All wore the same grey. None looked up.

"This is where you'll serve," Marta said. "Kitchen duties. Twice a week, you'll be taken to the blood chamber. The rest of the time, you clean, you scrub, and you stay out of sight."

Before Elira could respond, a door opened at the far end of the hall, and the room froze.

A figure stepped in.

He was tall and broad, wearing a dark grey tunic over a deep crimson undershirt. His hair was white not with age, but with a purity that looked unnatural.

His eyes were silver, cold and too clear, like moonlight reflected in steel.

The servants bowed their heads.

He walked past them like a shadow gliding over water, and paused briefly beside Elira.

His gaze met hers.

The same silence as the night before passed between them. This time, Elira didn't flinch. But her knees locked in place.

Then he moved on, disappearing down the hallway without a word.

Only when he was gone did the air in the room return. Servants resumed movement, albeit quieter, tenser.

Marta muttered under her breath. "Never meet his eyes that long. It draws attention."

Elira nodded, though her hands trembled slightly. "What's his name?"

"You don't speak it here," Marta said, then added, "Lord Calvorn."

They worked for hours. Elira peeled potatoes until her fingers ached, scrubbed soot from the hearthstone, and polished copper pans until her reflection looked like a ghost staring back. No one spoke to her directly, but she caught glances some curious, others pitying, one or two with the hollow look of those already too broken to care.

At midday, she was allowed a small meal—a crust of bread, watered wine, and a slice of bitter root. She ate in silence by the back entrance, watching the mist curl over the treetops just beyond the iron gates.

The blood chamber came after.

Two men led her through a long corridor she hadn't seen before. The air turned colder. The walls became black marble veined with red. The silence was thicker here, reverent, like a chapel turned upside down.

The chamber door opened.

Inside was a room of shadows and candlelight. At its center, a velvet chaise. A silver basin sat beside it, along with a cabinet of gleaming tools glass vials, silver tubes, long threads of silk.

No chains. No whips. No screams.

Just the soft smell of rose water.

A pale-skinned woman in crimson robes stepped forward. She smiled a thin, trained smile.

"You must be Elira," she said. "I am Therin. I collect the blood."

Elira didn't speak.

"You'll sit here," Therin instructed. "I will not hurt you. The lord is particular about pain."

Elira sat, breath held.

Therin unfastened a slender glass needle and pressed it gently into a vein on Elira's forearm. A soft sting, then warmth, then nothing. The blood drained slowly, carefully, into a crystal vial.

"You're strong," Therin observed. "He'll like that."

Elira didn't ask what she meant.

When it was done, Therin wrapped her arm in linen and nodded. "You may go."

Marta was waiting outside.

"First one's always the worst," the old maid said, not unkindly. "Now get back to the scullery."

By the time night fell, Elira could hardly lift her arms.

She collapsed into her cot, too exhausted to weep, too numb to dream.

But before the candle guttered, she opened the small pouch tied at her waist. Hidden deep inside, sewn into the lining, was a sliver of folded parchment.

Nicholas's handwriting.

She read it once.

"Don't let them take your name. Or your voice.You are more than what they want.I will wait for you by the river.—N."

She clutched the paper to her chest and closed her eyes.

She was still Elira.

She was still hers.

Even here.