Interlude 1
The girl was five years old when they took her.
Inside the Kingdom of Morvaine, every woman’s first child is born with a mark, a tiny sickle etched into the flesh of her cheek, pale and unmistakable.
It is the sacrifice all human families must offer up to Ravess, the God of Rot and Carrion, and his followers, the Caretakers who protect them from the terrors of the other gods.
The girl knew what her destiny was when she was taken.
She was to be brought to the Walled City, to live a life of luxury where her every whim and desire would be cared for, and then to offer her life and body as a sacrifice.
She would bear no children. She would raise no crops, nor would she contribute to the world.
The sickle on her cheek would be her only mark.
Fine wines were hers to drink at her leisure in the Walled City. Any of the Harrows would entertain her. She could read books or watch the plays the Harrows put on for them. She could play games or listen to bards sing songs.
Every imaginable luxury was hers. Until she turned eighteen.
Thirteen years of living like a princess without ever having to know the toil of a plow or the pain of hunger. Thirteen years with anything she could want. Except love. Except a future. Except more time.
On this day, as she lay by the window watching the sunrise, she realized no amount of luxury mattered because she had never lived.
Not only was she to sacrifice her body and life in a few hours, but her ability to truly live had been stripped from her when she was born.
Life is not born of luxury. Instead, it’s created from the experiences which give life purpose.
It’s hardship and success. It’s angst and joy.
It’s fear and hope all tangled together. She experienced none of that.
Yet, no tears fell. No, she’d stopped crying a year ago because hope for something different is necessary for a woman to shed tears.
This had been her destiny since the day she was born.
Nothing could have changed it. Maybe if her parents had run, but no, the Caretakers would have found them.
They would not have allowed a Sickle to leave the Kingdom of Morvaine.
The hours passed as the girl stared at the sun rising, and when the Harrows came to take her to the center of the Walled City, she didn’t struggle.
She didn’t fight or cry when they stripped her bare.
Even when the First Harrow drew the knife that had been carved from human bone from his belt, she stood silently.
The blade pierced her stomach, and he slowly drew it upward. The pain was extraordinary, but the girl only fell when the blade left her body, when her body no longer had the strength to stand. She screamed in agony, yet she did not weep.
What was there to weep for? Tears were for people that hoped for something different. She had always known this would be her end.
The only thought she had as her blood drained along intricate pathways to glass vials was of her mother. She wondered if the woman who’d given her life would remember her. She wondered if anyone would speak of her, if they would shed tears for her passing.
She knew the answer. No, they wouldn’t, because her destiny had been to die, not to live. And that didn’t stir sadness in her. No, for the first time in her life, she felt revulsion.