The air in the dark chamber was thick — so thick it felt almost tangible, clinging to the lungs like damp cloth. It reeked of burnt herbs and copper, the metallic tang sharp enough to sting the nose. Somewhere above, a sudden howl of wind swept through, cold and biting. The chamber had an open ceiling through which the full moon lay, heavy and bright.
Once, long ago, this place had been an altar to the Moon God — the primary deity of worship in the Altherian Empire. Back then, the pale light spilling through the open roof would have been considered a blessing. But those days were long gone. The marble walls no longer carried the whispers of prayer, only the echo of forbidden chants.
A large flat basin dominated the centre of the room, the floor beneath it carved with layers upon layers of runes and spell-circles. Their lines cut sharp and intricate into the stone, each stroke deliberate and precise. Even an untrained eye could sense their nature — dark and forbidden with the weight of something that should not exist pressing against the edges of the mind.
The High Priest stood at the heart of it all. Or rather, the man who wore the High Priest's robes. The true High Priest had long since been deposed, stripped from his station and vanished without a trace. This man was no holy servant. He was the Emperor's personal dark sorcerer, cloaked in the thin, fragile veil of divinity. And the god he served was no Moon God — but something far older, far hungrier.
Cyrus, the so-called Emperor of Altheria, stood within the ritual circle. His posture was steady, deliberate. Before him, a goat lay bound on a marble slab, mewling softly. Two servants held it down, their heads bowed so low it seemed their necks might snap. Even so, the faint tremor in their hands betrayed them. They might have been the ones holding the animal, but they were no less prey than it was.
In the shadows, guards stood at rigid attention. The edge of their swords and the dull gleam of their armour promised swift death at even the smallest mistake.
The High Priest raised his hands and began to mutter a string of low incantations. The language rolled like oil over stone, thick and heavy. When he finished, he gave a small nod to the Emperor.
Cyrus accepted the bejewelled ceremonial sword that was presented to him. He lifted it without ceremony. There was no flicker of hesitation in his eyes, no shadow of mercy, as he drove the blade into the animal's neck.
The motion was clean. One sharp stroke severed the head, sending it rolling until it landed near the feet of one of the trembling servants. The young man's breath hitched in terror, his shoulders shuddering, but he dared not move.
Blood poured freely from the goat's body, the flow caught in the waiting basin below. It pooled and swirled in deep crimson, the scent of copper thickening until it filled every breath. A few warm droplets speckled the Emperor's cheek. He didn't even blink, his expression as still as carved granite as he watched the basin fill.
The chanting resumed, this time joined by other hooded figures standing around the circle. Their voices, deep and guttural, slid into harmony — a sound so ancient it felt wrong to hear. The marble beneath their feet seemed to hum, the lines of the runes trembling faintly as the wind outside screamed against the open ceiling.
The sound fell away into a tense silence.
"It is now time for the human virginal sacrifice," the High Priest intoned.
Two guards moved at once, dragging a slave forward. She was a young girl — hardly more than a child — with a strip of filthy cloth tied cruelly over her mouth. Her long black hair fell in tangled ropes over her shoulders, grime smeared across her skin. Her eyes were dazed, unfocused, as though her mind could not keep pace with what was happening.
They shoved her into the circle. She stumbled forward and collided with the marble slab — the same slab that still held the goat's headless body. Her eyes darted over the blood-slicked stone, and in that instant, she understood her fate.
Her muffled scream strained against the gag. She tugged at the barbed ropes around her wrists and ankles, but they only bit deeper into her skin. Tears spilled down her cheeks, tracking through the dirt, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
The High Priest gave another nod.
Cyrus raised the sword again, the blade still wet with animal blood. The girl barely had time to flinch before the strike came. His face remained expressionless — no different than it had been moments ago. To him, this was no different than slaughtering livestock.
The sword came down in a single, fluid sweep. The sound of the strike was wet and final. Blood sprayed across the altar, splashing into the basin. From there, it slid down carved channels in the marble, tracing the lines of the spell-circle in a thin, glowing trail.
Her severed head struck the floor with a hollow sound. Cyrus kicked it aside with a sharp, efficient motion, so it would not disturb the markings. Her eyes were still open, wide and unblinking, as though she had not even had the chance to shut them.
The chanting swelled again, louder now — layered and resonant, the promise of something waking.
This ritual was not meant for Elliott Lancaster. No. Cyrus's goal was far more dangerous.
As the chants neared their end, the High Priest lowered his trembling hands. The pool of blood rippled, the carved symbols on the floor beginning to glow faintly. The priest reached for a dish set carefully to the side.
Upon it lay a single lock of dark hair.
The hair of Prince James Corvette — the 'lost' prince. The true heir to the Corvette dynasty, and to the Altherian throne.
Cyrus Corvette was not of the true royal line. He did not carry a single drop of their blood. He was a maternal uncle, nothing more. But after the massacre that had wiped out the entire royal family, leaving only him in a position to claim the throne, he had taken power.
Some whispered he had orchestrated it himself.
The youngest prince, however, had escaped.
According to the records, he had perished as well — falling with his caretaker into a cliffside ravine in their desperate flight from the assassins. No adult, much less a child, could have survived such a fall. The lack of a body was dismissed, blamed on the alligator-infested waters below.
But now, twenty years later, doubt had found Cyrus.
If James lived, he was the greatest threat to the Emperor's reign. And Cyrus was not a man who took chances.
The offerings had been made. Now, they waited.
If the ritual succeeded — if the entity deemed the sacrifices worthy — then it would come.
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AN: first peek at the villain~ 😭 (it's about damn time it's the 67th chapter)