دانلود کتاب the ritual

I find myself kneeling in the dimly lit room among twenty other men, my hands tightly bound behind me with handcuffs. My shirt hangs in tatters, blood trickling from my split lips. I’m gasping for air, my heart pounding relentlessly within my chest, almost deafened by the relentless rush of blood in my ears. Sweat drenches me as we struggle to cope with the situation. We were torn from our beds in the
I declare confidently, raising my chin in the warm, sticky air. Sweat clings to my brow after the fight. It’s all rigged; losing is what’s expected. The challenge is meant to test your limits, to see how much you have in you and how far you can push. I was determined to win, no matter the odds.
He looks down at me, smirking as if I’m being sarcastic. “Ryat, you seem quite sure of yourself.”
“I know my own limits,” I respond through clenched teeth. Being doubted irks me. We’ve been groomed for this—to become Lords.
Our wealth brought us to this point. However, it will be our resolve that sets us apart in the end. The man glances at the person to my left and nods. That person moves behind me and pulls me up by the back of my shirt. He unfastens the cuffs, and I tug the torn fabric over my head before letting my hands fall to my sides, resisting the urge to soothe my aching wrists. Displaying vulnerability is not an option. A Lord feels nothing; he operates like a machine. The man approaches with a knife in hand, offering it to me handle-first, his dark eyes nearly aglow with anticipation.
firmly anchored to the floor. With a swift motion, I pull off the blood-soaked sheet to reveal a man bound to it. His hands are handcuffed behind him, and his legs are spread wide, fastened to the chair’s legs. It’s no shock that I recognize him—he once held the title of Lord. The fact that he’s now restrained signals he no longer holds that power. But this information doesn’t alter my mission: eliminate without hesitation.
Aspiring for power means acknowledging you pose a threat to those eying your position. To prevail, it’s not about strength; it’s about being more lethal.
emblem of power. This symbol isn’t widely understood, but I recognize its significance because I wear it too. Everyone here does. Yet possessing it doesn’t guarantee it’s yours to keep.
demand blood and tears from those who turn against us. I press the knife’s tip into his skin, creating a thin line that trickles with blood. Tears spill down his face, mingling with the blood already coating it.
eliciting a strained, muted cry from behind the tape across his mouth. Blood seeps into his jeans and drips from the blade onto the cold concrete floor. We embody what others aspire to be. Circling him, I trace the knife’s tip along his forearm, slicing the skin much like I did with his neck. We must answer for our deeds. I plunge the knife into his left thigh, pulling it back out as his sobs persist. Our actions reveal our true selves.
emblazoned on his chest, a mark we earn upon completing our trials. Grasping his skin with my right hand, I pull it taut and then slide the blade through with my left, severing it from his body. Tears mix with the snot streaming from his nose, while blood wells from the open wound. His body quakes as he clenches his fists and writhes in the chair. I discard the skin at his feet, leaving it as a memento for later.
halts, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I always knew you were someone to keep an eye on,” he asserts. Accepting the knife, he pivots and strides away. I remain standing, breath labored, drenched in my own blood mingled with that of a comrade. Raising my gaze, I focus on the two-way mirror hanging on the wall.