The moon had risen high, casting a pale silver light over the village steeped in strange chants. The fog, thicker than ever, no longer felt cool and refreshing—it was heavy, damp, and clung to everything like a silent curse.
In the central square, where the ritual was to take place, the villagers had gathered. They wore cloaks of beast fur, horned goat masks, and held torches flickering in the wind. A circle of flame enclosed the offering site, where the young girl knelt, her hands bound gently with a red string.
Karl stood afar, watching in silence. He could sense the gathering energy from all directions—an ominous force, heavy as darkness pressing against the soul.
Molvar whispered beside him,"Are we going to stop this? I don't want to see that girl sacrificed to some lunatic belief."
