Uriel stared silently at the small dagger in his hand. The blade caught the sunlight and flashed coldly.
Behind him, on the big platform, everyone held their breath. But no one held it tighter than Elizabeth.
Her hands were squeezed together so hard her nails dug into her palms.
The Pope took one careful step forward, staying just outside the sacred circle, and spoke in a soft, gentle voice.
"You will have to cut yourself and let the platform drink your blood."
She stepped back right away, giving him space.
Uriel nodded calmly. No fear. No hesitation.
He lifted the dagger to his left wrist.
*Chik!*
A clean, quick cut. Bright red blood welled up and dripped down.
The moment the drops hit the stone platform, they vanished, sucked in like water into dry sand.
Uriel's face stayed perfectly peaceful the whole time. Not a twitch. Not a wince.
He switched hands and moved to his right wrist.
*Chik!*
More blood. More disappearing drops.
Then his arms again.
