The cavern seemed carved from silence itself. Only the torches hissed, their flames trembling against the damp stone walls, shadows crawling like restless spirits. The black figure of Prince Uliro loomed at the center, his hollow eyes gazing down at the living as though judging their every breath.
Oisla stood before the statue, Ragan's heavy axe in his hands. The iron weight dragged at his arms, though his grip was firm, his knuckles pale with tension. Before him, the chieftain knelt without chains or bindings, proud even in surrender, his neck bared, shoulders straight, as if inviting the blade.
Behind them, the tribe pressed in. Men, women, even children crowded the cavern's entrance, faces pale in the firelight. They had followed when Ragan led the boy away, and now they understood why. A murmur spread like wind through leaves—pleading voices, angry shouts, cries of disbelief.
"You cannot!" one woman screamed, her hands clutched around a child's shoulders. "Not him! He is our blood, our shield!"
Another man shoved forward, voice cracking with rage. "Coward's trick! You come here to kill our chief and call yourself leader? No boy's blood buys this tribe!"
Dozens of others shouted in agreement, their voices overlapping, swelling into a storm. Some wept openly. Some brandished weapons but did not raise them. All of them looked to Ragan, their voices breaking against his silence.
Still he knelt.
His gaze was steady, fixed on the statue's cold face, not on his people. He had already chosen.
Oisla's jaw tightened. He could feel the heat of the tribe's fury pressing against him like a tide, threatening to drown him where he stood. The axe weighed more heavily, not from its steel but from the eyes upon him—hundreds of them, drilling into his back, judging, cursing, begging.
Ragan finally spoke. His voice was low but carried, cutting through the chaos.
"Enough."
The crowd fell still, as though the word itself had shackled their tongues. Ragan turned his head just enough to glance at them over his shoulder. His voice echoed with finality.
"This is the way. This is our law."
The people trembled, but they could not defy him. Even now, at the edge of death, his word bound them.
Ragan looked back to Oisla, his expression unflinching. "Do it."
The axe trembled faintly in Oisla's grip. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat a drum calling him forward, each breath laced with smoke and sorrow. He remembered his father's hands, guiding his own as a boy, teaching him to hold tools, to read signs, to look deeper than what lay on the surface. He remembered the farm, the soil, the dinners by firelight, the peace that had seemed eternal once. All gone now.
He looked at Ragan, this man who had once commanded fleets, who had carried his people through exile, who had surrendered not because he was weak but because he would not let them burn. In another life, he might have been the kind of man Oisla could follow. But destiny cared nothing for kindness or admiration.
Oisla stepped closer, the axe raised.
A cry rang out—high, sharp, desperate. One of the women broke through the line of warriors, throwing herself to the ground before the chief. Her hair was tangled, her hands outstretched, her voice shaking.
"Please! Not like this! Take me instead! Take anyone! Spare him!"
Two warriors dragged her back, her screams cutting through the cavern, but Ragan did not move. He did not even blink.
"Strike," he said again, his tone harder now, commanding. "Do not falter, boy. Not here."
Oisla's breath caught. He could feel his companions above, waiting, watching, ready to descend at the first sign of betrayal. But no blade in the crowd mattered now. This choice was his alone.
He raised the axe higher, the muscles in his arms straining. The flames licked higher as if feeding on the moment. The crowd held its breath. The air thickened, heavy with dread.
For an instant, time froze.
Then the axe fell.
The sound was wet and final, steel biting through flesh and bone. A gasp tore from the crowd, dozens of voices breaking in shock and grief. Blood sprayed, bright and terrible, staining the stone, spattering Oisla's hands.
Ragan's body slumped forward, his head rolling free. It landed with a dull thud, eyes half-open, still fierce even in death.
Silence crashed over the cavern. The tribe stood frozen, their grief too heavy for words. Some wept softly, others stared blankly, as though their minds refused to accept what they had seen.
Oisla stood above the body, chest heaving, blood dripping from the axe. His hands shook, though his face remained stone. Inside, though, a storm raged—revulsion, sorrow, guilt, and a cold steel resolve braided together until he could no longer tell them apart.
Slowly, he bent, grasping the head by its hair. Warm blood streaked down his arm as he lifted it, its weight sickening and real. The crowd recoiled, some turning away, others glaring with hatred, but none dared move.
He carried it to the statue.
At its feet lay a broad stone bowl, cracked and darkened by centuries of offerings. Oisla knelt before it, lowering the head, tilting it carefully. Blood spilled in a crimson stream, filling the bowl, steaming faintly in the torchlight. The metallic scent thickened, cloying, making the crowd shift uneasily.
The bowl filled quickly, the surface rippling with each drop. The air seemed to grow colder still, as though the cavern itself was holding its breath.
Then—silence deeper than before.
The blood in the bowl stilled. And then, before every eye, it vanished. Not spilled. Not soaked. Vanished, as though swallowed by the stone itself.
A collective gasp broke from the tribe. Some fell to their knees. Others pressed their foreheads to the ground, trembling.
The statue loomed above, its hollow eyes unchanged, yet something about it felt different—heavier, more alive. The stone itself seemed to hum with power, as if acknowledging the offering.
The ritual was complete.
Oisla rose slowly, the blood still staining his hands, his face pale but unwavering. He turned to the tribe, their eyes wide with fear and awe. No one spoke. No one moved. The silence was no longer defiance—it was submission.
Prince Uliro had accepted the blood.
The boy from the farm had become their leader.