The fires in the pit had burned low, casting more shadow than light. The tribe lingered in tense silence, muttering prayers under their breath, waiting for some declaration from their leader. But Ragan had already risen from his seat, his broad back cutting a path through his people as he motioned for Oisla to follow.
Neither man spoke as they left the gathering behind. The murmurs faded, replaced by the low hiss of the wind that curled along the valley walls. Oisla's steps echoed faintly against stone as he followed the chieftain into a narrow passage cut into the rock. The air grew colder here, damp with the weight of years.
The tunnel opened into a cavern. Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering as though disturbed by unseen breath. At the center stood a statue—massive, weatherworn, carved from black stone that drank the light rather than reflected it.
It was the figure of a warrior prince. His stance was proud, his face stern, chiseled with a severity that seemed to pierce even across centuries. Time had worn the details of his armor, but his eyes remained sharp, hollow sockets that seemed to watch every step. At his feet lay offerings—coins, bones, shattered cups, dried flowers, and bowls stained with what could only be blood.
Oisla halted, his chest tightening. There was something heavy in the air here, thicker than smoke, older than the pit itself. It was reverence, yes—but also fear.
Ragan came to stand before the statue. For a long while, he said nothing. His axe hung loose in one hand, his head bowed slightly, as though he were no longer a chief but a supplicant.
Finally, his voice came, low, steady, each word like stone dropping into a well.
"This is Prince Uliro. The one who led our fathers across the seas. The one who built this tribe from nothing but fire and salt. When he fell, the people raised him into godhood. His statue became our covenant."
He looked back at Oisla, his eyes shadowed but burning.
"Every leader since has stood here. Every leader has proven themselves the same way."
Oisla stepped closer, his gaze locked on the statue. "How?"
Ragan's hand tightened on his axe. He lifted it slowly, not toward Oisla, but toward himself. The firelight danced across the steel.
"By death."
The word hung there, heavy, final.
Ragan turned fully, his expression carved in iron. "A chief does not yield with words. A chief yields with blood. If I fall, and if the Prince accepts my blood, then the one who gives it becomes the new leader. That is our law. That is the only way this tribe will ever bow to you."
Oisla's breath caught, but he forced his voice steady. "You ask me to kill you."
Ragan nodded, slowly, deliberately. "Yes. Behead me. Let my blood feed the bowl at his feet. If the stone drinks it, then the Prince has chosen you. If not—" His gaze flicked to the statue, and something like fear crossed even his hardened face. "Then you are nothing, and my people will tear you apart before dawn."
The cavern seemed to close in around them, the air colder still. Oisla looked at the statue again, at its hollow eyes that seemed almost alive in the fire's restless glow. He felt the weight of history pressing down on him—his father's chant, his own blood, the barrels of oil still waiting above. But none of that compared to this moment, to the ritual older than kingdoms, where belief itself could crown or crush him.
"You could live," Oisla said quietly, though his voice held no doubt, only observation. "You could lead them still. They would follow."
Ragan shook his head. "No. They will not. They saw fear tonight. They saw surrender. My blood is already spent, boy. Better it serve one last purpose."
He stepped closer, placing the axe into Oisla's hands. The weight of it was immense, the haft worn smooth by decades of calloused palms.
"Do it," Ragan whispered. His eyes locked on Oisla's, steady, unblinking. "Take what you came for. But know this—if the Prince accepts you, you will not only rule them. You will inherit the curse of every man who has knelt here before."
The torchlight wavered. Shadows crawled along the cavern walls, stretching like grasping fingers. The statue loomed, patient, silent, waiting.
Oisla's hand tightened around the axe. His pulse thundered in his ears, not from fear, but from the enormity of it—the path that would split here, one way into fire, the other into nothing.
He drew a breath, steadying himself, his gaze never leaving the warrior prince of stone. The moment was suspended, time itself holding its breath.
And with that, the ritual began.