Lady Claire Augustus closed her eyes as she drew a bucket of cold water from a runic wellspring. Raising it overhead, she poured it over her body, thoroughly soaking the thin linens that adorned her dainty frame. The moisture doused her skin but washed right off the arctic blue scales scattered across her figure. Her shoulder-length hair, which was of the same ethereal colour, glistened in the candlelit darkness each time she repeated the motion. Once, twice, thrice, as her heart pounded loudly in her chest.

Her fists were balled, her teeth were clenched, and her long, fuzzy ears were curled. A faint trembling coursed through her spine, and not just because of the mind-numbing cold. With a shake of the head, she opened her slit eyes, touched the enlarged scales on her cheeks, and drew a series of deep breaths. Still, even with fresh air pumping through her lungs, she was unable to retain her calm.

Fear and excitement coursed through her mind in tandem as she placed her hand atop a circular stone. With another breath, she tapped into the raw mana flowing through her magic circuits and channelled it into the artifact. The enchanted lettering scribbled into the rock came to life as it borrowed her magic. A faint, green glow spread throughout the room, accompanied by a warm breeze unbefitting the early morning. It dried her out immediately, removing the moisture from her ritualistic garment in the blink of an eye.

Turning her gaze to the door, she paused briefly to comb her hair and straighten her dress. Given that her father and tutor were the only two present, it was hardly a necessary step. But Claire took the time regardless. A lady always had to look her best. Even on the day she died.

The duke’s daughter emerged from the inner chamber and entered the ritual hall. Without looking at either cloaked observer, she seated herself in front of the ancient altar and slowly closed her eyes. Vision sealed or not, she could still see the stone pillars that lined the atrium. The religious motifs, the amplifying runes, and even the cracks in the walls. All as familiar as the back of her hand.

For ten long years, nearly two-thirds of her life, she had served as the manor’s ritual mage. She had prayed, sung, and danced. And even sacrificed those she knew. Now, it was her turn to give life and blood in the curse god’s name.

Lips trembling, she touched each item on the altar in turn—the candle, the dagger, and the freshly picked rose—before clasping her hands in her lap and invoking the ancient spell.

Her mana spread out from her core, arranging itself around her body in a circle that spanned the room. Slowly, the runic formation spun, rotating as it pulsed with a faint, crimson light. Each beat was matched with a pump of her heart—a rapid, chaotic flicker.

“O Builledracht, great god of curses and bringer of despair.” Still, her voice was clear as a bell.

She picked up the knife and slit open a finger, not even flinching as the blood dripped from her hand. She placed the scarlet digit on the altar and drew an ancient symbol with a graceful, practiced motion. Next, she lit the candle with a smear of her enchanted ichor and placed it in the center of her illustration. The rose soon followed suit, held directly above the flame as she channelled her mana through its stem. With its properties manipulated, the beautiful blossom was quick to dry and shrivel, to fall apart and burn to dust as the fire claimed it as its own.

“I beseech not a miracle upon my person, but a plague upon my enemies, for their very souls to be withered like a rose before a flame.”

With the last petal burned, the ritual mage directed her gaze toward the dagger again. And turned its blade upon her chest. There was a slit in her dress, a thin gap through which the weapon would be inserted.

“I offer my lifeblood as payment, pure as silver, rich as gold.”

Silently, carefully, she thrust the sharpened blade. It sank past her flesh, through her ribs, and into her heart. A single swift motion left the vital organ impaled. She barely felt it at first, but an excruciating pain accompanied the following beat.

The final step was to twist the knife and end her suffering. To do as promised to the deity and grant him her life. But Claire did no such thing. She gritted her teeth instead and concentrated on the flow of magic. There was finally enough of it spread throughout the air.

Stealthily as she could, she drew another symbol across the floor with her bloodied finger. Her first spell was dispersed. But before its backlash could register, she quickly closed her eyes and cast another.

In just a few brief moments, her body was enveloped in a thin, magical veil and whisked away to an accursed land.