Dominus Rex Chapter 7: The Ritual (A serial novel inspired by a fever dream i had about Jeffrey Epstein)
- Feb 21
- 10 min read
Updated: Feb 22
The donors arrived separately. Black cars. No convoy. No visible coordination. The greenhouse was lit warmer than usual. Candles this time. Low instrumental music. The orchids glowed like something curated for transcendence. Three men.
One returning. Two new. The returning donor — Adrian — walked with familiarity. Measured. Relaxed. The new ones were different. The first: older, political, hands steady but eyes sharp. The second: younger, tech-sector, hyper-aware, masking anticipation with restraint. Rex greeted each with equal composure. No overt warmth. No solemnity. “Thank you for attending,” he said.
Not welcome. Attending. James stood slightly behind him. Clinical. Present. Unemotional. Ellie remained near the edge of the greenhouse, positioned where she could observe both donors and James simultaneously. The music faded gradually. Not cut. Faded. Rex raised his hand slightly. No speech. Just transition. “Please,” he said softly.
He gestured toward the glass corridor. The descent was unannounced. No theatrics. No robes. No chanting. They walked. The corridor felt longer tonight. The donors noticed the slope. The lighting. No one commented. Below, the circular chamber waited.
The ring light above the bull was already active. Perfect symmetry. Perfect stillness. The donors stepped inside. Their eyes adjusted. The bull stood at the center. Stone. Unmoved. Composed. The older donor inhaled slowly.
Adrian did not. He had seen this before. “This is the chamber,” Rex said calmly. Not sacred. Not dramatic. Just identification. The younger donor stepped closer to the bull, studying its geometry. “It’s… minimalist,” he said.
“Yes,” Rex replied.
“Spectacle is disorder.”
James watched the donors. Their pupils. Their breathing. Their posture. They were not horrified. They were assessing. The recessed panel opened. The attendants entered.
Between them walked a woman. Mid-thirties. Clean clothing. Hair tied back loosely. Hands unbound. Her eyes moved quickly around the chamber. The donors straightened slightly. There it was. The shift. Anticipation. Rex did not look at the woman first. He looked at the donors. “This is alignment,” he said softly.
The word landed. The older donor nodded faintly. The younger swallowed. The woman spoke. “Where am I?”
No one answered immediately. The attendants positioned her before the bull. James stepped forward one pace. Controlled. He met her gaze briefly. Not cruel. Not compassionate. Clinical. “Your relocation tier has been finalized,” he said.
The words felt administrative. The older donor exhaled through his nose. The younger shifted weight slightly. The woman looked at James. “This isn’t what I agreed to.”
He did not react. “Consent is contextual,” he said.
Rex did not interrupt. Ellie’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The attendants guided the woman closer to the sculpture. Her breathing quickened. “Please,” she said.
The word echoed faintly. The donors did not flinch. They leaned forward slightly instead. Rex’s voice remained steady. “Observe your own response,” he said to them quietly.
Not command. Instruction. The woman resisted. Not violently. But instinctively. Her hands pressed briefly against the stone. It was warm from earlier maintenance. She recoiled at the warmth. James watched her pulse in her throat. The younger donor swallowed again. The older donor remained very still. The seam along the bull’s flank opened. Not dramatically. Just mechanically. A narrow aperture. Darkness within. The woman’s composure fractured then. “This is wrong.”
The word hung. Wrong. Rex’s voice entered calmly. “Hierarchy is mercy.”
No one explained the sentence. It was not for her. The attendants lifted her feet from the floor. She struggled harder now. Her voice rose. Not screaming yet. But rising. The donors’ breathing changed. Subtle. But noticeable.
James stepped closer. Not to comfort. Not to restrain. To oversee. “Timing,” he said quietly.
The attendants adjusted lifted her and placed her within the structure. The woman’s voice broke into a scream then. Short. Sharp. Human. The chamber absorbed it. Rex inclined his head slightly. “Alignment requires cost,” he said.
Not justification. Statement. Ellie watched James. Not the donors. James did not look at her. He looked at the chamber. It felt disturbingly ordered. Disturbingly efficient. Disturbingly correct. And that was the shock. The ritual was not chaotic.
It was structured. Not frenzied. Disciplined. Not mythic. Administrative. The donors were not shaken apart. They were composed. Within the bull was not darkness now. She was restrained within the internal brace — upright, suspended. Alive. Breathing shallowly. A tube at her mouth. A harness at her torso. The donors understood. This was not disappearance. This was participation. The older donor exhaled once. “This is the ritual,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Rex replied.
Not denial. Not confirmation. Just presence. James stepped forward. In his hands now: Four narrow instruments. Steel. Simple. Almost surgical. Not blades of spectacle. Not ceremonial daggers. Clinical tools.
He handed one to Adrian first. Then to the older donor. Then to the younger. Last — he kept one for himself. The weight of it felt neutral.
Ellie did not move. She stood at the periphery. Observing. Rex remained still near the ring light’s axis. “The violence must be shared,” he said calmly. “No proxy. No abstraction.”
The woman’s eyes were wide open now. She understood. Her voice tried to form something through the tube. It became only breath. James did not look at her face. He looked at positioning. He stepped closer. The donors hesitated for half a second. That half-second mattered. “Together,” Rex said softly.
Not a command. A synchronization cue. The instruments were placed. Four points. Precisely spaced. Not random. The older donor’s hand trembled. The younger’s jaw tightened. Adrian did not tremble. James inhaled once. Then— Pressure. Not stabbing. Not slashing. Insertion. Controlled. Measured. The woman convulsed against the harness.
A sound escaped her throat. Muffled. Human. Blood emerged. Dark. Thick. Warm. It ran downward into the basin designed to receive it. Not sprayed. Not chaotic. Collected. The donors’ hands were coated. Not drenched. But undeniable.
The older donor recoiled slightly at the warmth. The younger gasped once. Adrian pressed deeper. James did not change expression. “Hold,” he said quietly.
They held. The woman’s body trembled violently. Then slowed. Then trembled less. The basin filled gradually. The smell entered the chamber. Metallic. Dense. The ring light brightened slightly. Not to illuminate violence. To illuminate faces. The donors’ faces.
This was the point. Not her suffering. Their participation. Rex watched them. Watching themselves. “Do not withdraw,” he said.
The older donor nodded through clenched teeth. The younger swallowed bile. James maintained pressure. The woman’s movements weakened. Then weakened again. Then— Stillness. Not theatrical. Just absence of resistance. The instruments remained in place for three more seconds.
James counted silently.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Release,” he said.
They withdrew. The sound was soft. Wet. Controlled. The basin system activated. A low hum. The collected blood drained through internal channels. Not waste. Integration.
The woman’s body remained suspended. Emptying. The chamber did not erupt. No chanting. No cheering. No frenzy. Only breathing.
Four men stood with blood on their hands. Visible. Undeniable. Rex stepped forward. He did not touch the body. He did not touch the basin. He took a linen cloth from an attendant. Not to clean them. To press their hands together. He placed Adrian’s blooded palm against the older donor’s. Then against the younger’s. Then against James’s. The blood mixed. Smear over smear. Red over red. “Alignment,” Rex said quietly.
No sermon. No poetry. The younger donor was shaking now. Not from horror. From adrenaline. From euphoria. The older donor’s breathing had steadied. Adrian’s eyes were clear. James looked down at his own hand. Blood in the creases of his skin. Warm. Real.
Ellie stepped forward for the first time. Not toward the body. Toward James. She looked at his hand. Then at his face. “You feel it,” she said softly.
He did not answer. Rex addressed the donors. “There is no abstraction now,” he said.
“You share the cost.”
No one contradicted him. The body was lowered mechanically into the core chamber. The seam closed. Stone met stone. Silence returned. Perfect.
The chamber was immaculate. Except for their hands. Except for the smell. Attendants brought basins. Warm water. White towels. No rush. No panic. The donors washed together. The water ran pink. Then clear. James scrubbed methodically. Not violently. He examined the creases of his fingers. Ensured no residue remained. When he looked up— The younger donor was staring at him. Different now. Something had shifted. Not horror. Recognition. They were bound. Not by ideology. By shared action.
The older donor spoke first. “It’s… clarifying,” he said.
Adrian nodded. “Yes.”
The younger swallowed. “I understand,” he said quietly.
Rex inclined his head. “Good.”
Ellie’s eyes remained on James. He met her gaze finally. There was no revulsion in her face. No approval. Just intensity. “You crossed,” she said softly.
He looked back toward the bull. The stone was smooth again. Untouched. “It was necessary,” he replied.
The words felt heavier now. More permanent. The chamber lights dimmed slightly. Rex gestured toward the corridor. “Upstairs,” he said.
No urgency. No triumph. Just continuation. The donors walked back up the incline. Hands clean. Clothes unmarked. Faces composed. The brutality was not in blood. It was in order. It was in the fact that they would sit upstairs and drink wine and speak of markets while a body cooled beneath stone, unaware of the cameras hidden within the chamber. Unaware of the extent to which they had been alignrd.
James paused at the base of the incline for half a second. Alone. He flexed his fingers once. No tremor. No visible fracture. But something inside him had shifted from observation to participation. There was no longer distance. Only complicity. He turned and followed the others up. Above them, the greenhouse glowed softly. Innocent. As if nothing beneath it had ever moved at all.
The air changed as they ascended. Not metaphorically. Physically. Humidity returned first. Then the faint scent of citrus. Then music. A single violin line drifting from the quartet above, soft enough to feel accidental. The incline opened into the greenhouse through a concealed seam in the rear wall. No one entering the main corridor would see it. No one leaving the gala floor would notice what had occurred beneath their feet.
The mist system released on cue. A gentle exhale. The donors stepped into it with clean hands. James noticed the detail. Their cuffs were immaculate. Their shoes untouched. Their breathing nearly steady. Only the pupils betrayed dilation. A server approached with champagne.
“Refreshments,” she said softly.
Her tone identical to earlier in the evening. No tremor. No awareness. The flute in James’s hand felt light. Too light. Adrian lifted his immediately. “To resilience,” he said.
His voice did not shake. The older donor hesitated half a second—then raised his glass as well. The younger followed. Rex did not toast. He watched. The glasses touched. Crystal against crystal. The sound was bright. Clean. Almost innocent.
James tasted the champagne. It was cold. The contrast with the warmth from minutes earlier felt surgical. Ellie stood slightly apart. She had not washed her hands. She had not touched anything. She watched the men drink. “You see?” she said quietly to James.
“See what?” he replied.
“They’re calmer.”
He looked around. She was right. Adrian’s posture had softened. The older donor’s shoulders were lower. The younger’s breathing was steady now. Shock had not fractured them. It had fused them. Marianne entered the greenhouse from the far door. She had not been present below. She took in the room with quick, precise eyes. “Finished?” she asked Rex.
“Yes,” Rex replied.
No elaboration. She nodded once. “Good.”
There was no curiosity in her voice. Only confirmation. A string quartet member adjusted her sheet music. The melody shifted to something lighter. Almost playful. The greenhouse lighting warmed half a degree. Not noticeable consciously. But perceptible. Rex stepped toward the bull sculpture at the center aisle. He placed his palm against the brass. Not reverently. Structurally. “Do you understand now?” he asked the donors.
Adrian answered first. “Yes.”
The older donor spoke more slowly. “There’s… no distance anymore.”
Rex inclined his head. “Distance breeds illusion,” he said.
“Shared action removes it.”
The younger donor nodded. “It feels… clarifying.”
The same word used below. James watched the pattern. Language stabilizing cognition. Violence metabolized into vocabulary. A server passed with a tray of small porcelain plates. Pastries. Honey glaze catching the light. Adrian took one. A small bite. Blood had dried under his fingernails earlier. Now sugar coated his tongue. James felt the sequence as data.
Brutality. Champagne. Pastry. The juxtaposition was the ritual’s second layer. Not the killing. The composure. Ellie stepped closer to James. “Do you feel different?” she asked.
He examined the question honestly. “Yes,” he said.
“How?”
“There’s no abstraction left.”
She nodded faintly. “And?”
“And it’s cleaner than I expected.”
Her eyes sharpened slightly. “That’s the horror,” she said.
He didn’t argue. Marianne approached the group. “Zurich will be stable,” she said calmly.
Adrian nodded. “It will.”
“The minister?” she asked.
“Aligned,” Rex replied.
She looked at each of them in turn. “Good.”
She noticed nothing unusual. Or she noticed everything and chose silence. The mist fell again. A soft veil over faces. James glanced at the bull sculpture. Its surface gleamed. No seam visible. No hint of the chamber below. A young couple from earlier reentered the greenhouse from the main house corridor. They had missed the ritual. They smiled brightly. “Are we too late?” the woman asked playfully.
“Not at all,” Rex said.
His tone identical to before. They joined the group. No one mentioned what had occurred. The quartet swelled slightly. Conversations resumed. Adrian began discussing energy futures. The older donor laughed at something Marianne said.
The younger stood a little straighter than before. Bound. James watched the ease settle. The brutality had not destabilized them. It had simplified them. They no longer needed to imagine cost. They had enacted it. Ellie’s hand brushed lightly against James’s wrist. “Now you belong,” she said softly.
He looked at her. “I belonged before.”
“No,” she replied.
“You observed before.”
The distinction mattered. He did not deny it. Rex approached him. “You held steady,” Rex said.
“Yes.”
“No hesitation.”
“No.”
Rex studied his face for a moment. “Good.”
That was all. No praise. No sentiment. Just evaluation. The greenhouse doors opened briefly to allow fresh air. Night beyond the glass looked vast and neutral. The estate lights glowed warmly. A donor from earlier gestured toward the bull. “It’s magnificent,” he said.
Rex smiled faintly.
“It represents resilience,” he replied.
The donor nodded. “Strength under pressure.”
“Yes,” Rex said.
James felt the words settle. Strength under pressure. He flexed his fingers subtly. No tremor. No visible fracture. Ellie leaned close enough that only he could hear her. “You didn’t look away,” she said.
“No.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“No.”
She studied him. “You’re becoming him.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Small ripple. Nothing outward. He held her gaze. “I’m becoming structure,” he said.
She didn’t smile. “Be careful,” she whispered.
The quartet reached a bright crescendo and then softened again. The mist fell. Champagne refilled. Laughter returned fully. From above, from the outside, from any angle that mattered— The evening was elegant. Controlled. Civilized.
Below them, beneath stone and brass, a body cooled in engineered silence. No one trembled. No one wept. No one spoke of guilt. The ritual had not felt chaotic. That was the most disturbing truth. It had felt organized. Rex raised his glass finally. “To continuity,” he said.
The donors echoed him. “To continuity.”
James drank. The champagne tasted exactly as it had before. Cold. Clean. Efficient. The machine was beautiful. And now he was inside it. Fully.
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