Ritual Altar of Lies

Prologue The Blood God

Prologue

The Blood God

The blade trembled in my hand—not from fear but from reverence and acceptance. I was born to be here at this moment.

Taking this life.

Blood dripped in thick, warm rivulets down the altar stone, steam rising in the frosty night air like a war cry to the one we worshipped.

The girl was still breathing, her voice meek and frail, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

Her chest rose with each shallow, gurgling breath, blood spraying out to paint a gorgeous shade of red along her lips.

No one would save her.

Just like I’d been born to stand here in front of her at this moment, she’d been born to lie on this altar, giving up her life for the Blood God.

Around me, white-robed figures swayed to unheard music, chanting in a language far older than any ever spoken.

It was our prayer to the All Father, the one who would rule.

The girl took her last breath, and then all was silent.

The ritual was complete.

Marcus, the Prophet, raised his arms, his voice cutting through the silence.

“An offering to the Great One. Her blood will strengthen Him.”

A thick, holy silence covered us.

But nothing happened.

The wind didn’t shift.

The earth didn’t tremble.

The veil between worlds didn’t thin.

We waited.

Nothing.

A whisper moved through the crowd. Confusion. Doubt.

Marcus’s expression remained stony, but I saw the twitch in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes as he stepped forward and knelt beside the girl’s lifeless body.

“She was meant to be the Vessel,” someone muttered.

“She was chosen,” another said, more uncertain now.

Then a sound—a soft, broken sob—cut through the ritual space. It came from the tree line, just beyond the glow of the torches.

Marcus stood slowly, his head turning like a beast scenting blood.

From the shadows emerged two small figures, unnoticed until now. A boy and a girl from our community, their hands clasped tightly. The boy was pale and sobbing, watching with hollow eyes. The girl was silent and apathetic.

His sobs grew louder as she stepped into the firelight, her gaze locked on the altar.

They’d seen everything.

The sacrifice.

The ultimate failure.

Her hair was thrown into two loose pigtails, but she was stoic. No expression on her innocent features. The little boy wailed beside her.

I remembered her now: Vienna. A child of a follower of the Bleeding Ground.

Marcus’s expression shifted—recognition, then wonder, then something terrifyingly close to joy.

“Look at her face . . .” he said, voice low and awed as he stepped toward her. A hush fell over the group. “She was born to witness this. Look how it doesn’t affect her.”

He stepped further even more, his robes dragging through the blood pooled at the altar’s base. His hand lifted, pointing directly at the little girl.

“The Blood God has spoken,” Marcus announced, his voice reverberating through the trees. “She is the Vessel. She is the one prophesied.”

A murmur rose like smoke through the followers, some gasping, others dropping to their knees.

Vienna didn’t move. She stared at the Prophet indifferently, still clutching the boy’s hand like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.

He looked at her, and she looked at him—and something passed between them. A bond sealed in blood and silence.

Then Marcus reached her.

He crouched so his towering form didn’t swallow her small one, and took her free hand gently between his own bloodstained palms.

“You’re very important, child,” he said, his voice falsely tender. “Chosen. Sacred.”

The boy’s sobs stuttered in his throat.

Marcus ignored the crying child and focused only on the girl. “Don’t be afraid,” Marcus whispered, even though she didn’t appear the least bit terrified. “The Blood God sees you now.”

And we all did, too.

The Vessel had been found.

And He would rise.

The crowd’s murmurs grew into fervent chants, the energy shifting from doubt to renewed faith. But in the back of my mind, I wondered if this child truly understood the weight of what had just been placed upon her fragile shoulders.

The Bleeding Ground had always thrived on such prophecies, but this one felt different—more desperate, as if our failures had forced us to cling to any sign of divine favor.