III
When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the stars. Pinpricks of cold light pierced through the canopy above, alien and distant. For weeks or months, there had been nothing but suffocating darkness, a void so complete that I thought I might never see again. Now, they were there, indifferent witnesses to my pain.
I lay still, letting the air fill my lungs. Damp soil and the sharp tang of smoke replaced the rot and filth I had grown used to. It was disorienting, this shift from claustrophobic captivity to something that almost resembled openness.
Then reality came crashing back, and with it, the pain.
The branding was a living thing, a raw, searing agony etched into my flesh. I couldn’t scream. My body refused to give me that relief. My fingers twitched toward the source, brushing against something cold and wet. A leaf? Cloth? My mind swam, unable to process. I wanted to see it, to know what they had done to me, but my neck refused to turn, leaving me trapped in my confusion.
The dress—thin, white, and clinging to me like a shroud—was another violation. The realisation that someone had dressed me while I was unconscious sent a shiver of revulsion crawling under my skin. My breath hitched as the weight of it pressed down: I wasn’t a person here, just another object for them to use.
My eyes darted around, desperate for context. The fire blazed at the centre of the clearing, its flames dancing hungrily, casting jagged shadows against the trees. Vir stood before it, his figure obscured by thick robes, the hood shrouding his face. He held a goblet, and his lips moved in a steady chant, a low, guttural sound that made my skin crawl.
Around him, the ground was etched with runes, their grooves filled with a liquid that glistened dark and wet under the firelight. My stomach twisted as the realisation hit me—it wasn’t water or oil. It was blood.
I swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear thick on my tongue. My hands clawed weakly at the earth, a futile attempt to anchor myself against the rising tide of panic.
The sound of movement snapped my attention to the forest. Men emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden behind grotesque animal masks. Their bodies were slick with blood, streaked in crude patterns that glistened in the firelight. Around their hips, scraps of fur hung, more a mockery of modesty than clothing.
But it was the women they dragged behind them that made my breath catch.
Each man gripped a woman like a hunter with his prey, hauling them forward despite their resistance. The women were dressed like me, but their gowns were shorter, and ripped, exposing too much. Their faces… God, their faces. Glazed eyes stared at nothing or rolled skyward. Some whispered to themselves, words that tumbled out like broken prayers. Others laughed—a sound so fractured and wrong that it made my blood run cold.
I wanted to turn away, but I couldn’t. My body was frozen, pinned by the surreal horror unfolding before me. The women weren’t screaming for help. They weren’t begging to be saved. Whatever sanity they once had was gone, replaced by something… broken.
The men forced them into a circle around the fire pit, their movements methodical, and practised. I could see it then—that wasn’t chaos. That was a ritual.
I tried to move, to crawl away from the madness, but my body wouldn’t obey. My limbs felt heavy, as if weighed down by chains. My head lolled uselessly as I struggled to muster even a whisper, but no sound came.
The chanting grew louder. Vir’s voice rose above the crackling flames, a cadence that seemed to seep into my skin, sinking deep, filling every crevice of my mind.
The men surrounded the women, their hands moving with cruel efficiency. Dresses were torn from bodies, the sound of ripping fabric mingling with the crackle of the fire and the low hum of the chant.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but it did nothing to block the sounds—the screams, the laughter, the sickening thuds as the women fought and failed.
My mind splintered under the weight of it, every nerve in my body screaming for escape. I whispered to myself, a desperate mantra: “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”
But the smell of blood and sweat, the heat of the fire, the guttural sounds of violation—they were too vivid to be a nightmare.
The chanting reached a fever pitch, and then came the silence.
I opened my eyes to see the men standing back, their hands now gripping daggers. The women—what was left of them—were on their knees, heads bowed, bodies trembling.
“No,” I whispered, my voice a hollow echo of the scream clawing at my throat.
As if on cue, the men moved. Blades gleamed in the firelight as they sliced across throats, crimson sprays arcing into the air. The women crumpled, their lifeblood pooling beneath them, trickling into the runes.
Then, the men kicked the bodies into the flames. The fire roared, hungrily devouring the offering.
The smell of burning flesh hit me like a physical blow, and the scream finally tore free from my throat—a raw, guttural sound that split the night.
Vir turned, his chanting silenced. He crossed the clearing in seconds, crouching before me. His bloodied hands reached for my face, but I recoiled, pressing myself into the earth as if I could disappear.
“Don’t worry, sweet thing,” he murmured, his voice eerily calm. “You aren’t them. They were rejected. You are blessed.”
His fingers brushed my hair, and I shuddered.
“Greatness awaits your future.”