The air inside the waterfall grew heavier as the priestess straightened her spine and drew in a trembling breath. Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"There is a ritual," she said, her tone low but unyielding. "The Ishvara clan holds a secret rite—one that is forbidden, and for good reason. It grants the priestess immense power, but only once. I know the steps, I know the pain it demands… and with it, we could weaken the Charora. We could kill him."
Gasps rippled through the gathered villagers. The sharp crackle of whispers rose, mingling with sudden relief flickering across their weary faces. For a heartbeat, hope glowed in their eyes.
But when I turned toward my companions, I found none of them shared that relief. Instead, their expressions were tangled—doubt, confusion, suspicion. Amir's brow furrowed as he stepped forward, his voice had a tint of frustration.
"Why didn't you say this before?" he demanded in a cool voice. "Why didn't you use it before, if you already had a plan?"
The villagers fell quiet again, their stares swinging back to the priestess. Even I held my breath. Out of the corner of my eye, Mia sat apart from us, her posture rigid. She gave a single glance at the priestess, her eyes unreadable, then turned away, staring blankly at nothing.
The priestess inhaled once more, slower this time, and when she spoke, her words were laced with weight.
"Because this ritual is forbidden for a reason," she confessed. "It requires blood… the blood of a direct descendant of Kaelen."
The moment the name left her lips, silence dropped like a stone. Every gaze in the room—mine included—shifted toward Mia.
Mie Lin tilted her head, one brow arched with that calm sharpness she always carried. Her voice was steady, respectful, but cool enough to cut through the tension.
"Direct descendant?" she asked. "How do we find this descendant? Kaelen never married, never bore children. How do we do it, Priestess?"
Before the priestess could answer, an old man shuffled forward from among the villagers. His voice was cracked with age but steady with memory.
"Kaelen never wed, true… but he always returned for this girl, Mia," the elder said, his weathered hand trembling as he pointed toward her. "The Charora terrifies us all—but she never feared him. Once, she came back with blood on her… and the priestess told us then: the blood of the Charora runs inside her now."
A cold shiver threaded through the silence that followed.
Shahib's jaw tightened as he turned sharply to the priestess.
"Is this true?" he asked, suspicion heavy in his tone.
The priestess closed her eyes for a breath, as if steadying herself, then opened them with quiet conviction.
"Yes," she admitted. "I carry the Third Eye passed down from my ancestors. I could see it within her—the mark, the pulse of his blood. She never denied it either."
I felt something hot rise inside me, and before I knew it, my voice cut through the room, firm and unyielding.
"Because she could not speak," I said. "How was she supposed to deny it?"
The words hung there, striking harder than I intended, and for the first time, the whispers that followed carried more fear than hope.
I had barely finished when a woman's voice rose from the crowd, sharp and unyielding.
"It doesn't matter if she can't speak," she said, her chin lifted with stubborn certainty. "If the priestess said she has the blood of the Charora, then it must be true."
The words struck like a lash, and murmurs of agreement rippled through the villagers. Their fear was stronger than reason, stronger than compassion. I could see it in their eyes—the desperate need to believe in anything, even if it meant condemning Mia all over again.
My jaw tightened. How quickly they turned her silence into evidence. How easily they chained her to a fate she never chose.
The priestess raised her hands, her voice carrying calm authority over the restless crowd.
"Enough," she said firmly. "Calm yourselves. These people are here to save us, not to harm us. We must show them respect—they come from the palace, they are officials."
She turned to us then, her shoulders bowing low, her forehead nearly touching the ground.
"I apologize on behalf of my village," she said, her tone filled with humility. "They are frightened, and fear twists easily into anger. Please… forgive them."
The weight of her words lingered in the silence until Selena's voice cut through, clear but edged with unease.
"Priestess… you said blood. Do you mean only a certain amount? Or…" Her voice faltered, though we all understood the question left unfinished. Did the ritual demand a wound—or a life?
The priestess didn't answer immediately. Her silence was louder than any denial could have been. Seconds stretched, each heartbeat heavier than the last, until at last she lowered her gaze and spoke, softer than before.
"Unfortunately," she admitted, "our scriptures speak not of a portion… but of a sacrifice."
A chill swept over the gathering. Even the villagers, who had moments ago shouted in accusation, seemed struck silent.
Shahib's voice broke the stillness, trembling with disbelief.
"But… to kill someone," he said, his words faltering, "just because she carries the blood of a devil…"
The hush that followed was absolute, pressing down on us like the weight of the heavens themselves.
The cave trembled with whispers, voices weaving into a dark chorus that carried only one conclusion. They would sacrifice Mia. If it meant saving themselves, they would not hesitate. And if we stood against them—if we tried to stop it—they would turn on us as well.
I knew the law. By Marfian decree, palace officials were forbidden to raise arms against villagers unless under direct attack. To harm them, even in defense of one innocent life, would brand us as traitors. The law was clear, and it bound my hands tighter than any chain.
My gaze drifted to Mia. She sat apart, a fragile shadow wrapped in tattered cloth, her eyes fixed on nothing. I remembered her hands moving in silence hours ago, telling me pieces of her life. How she was just a child when the first stone struck her—too young to understand why. How she couldn't even recall when the assaults began, only that one day bled into the next until pain became normal, and fear numbed into silence.
And now, even as every whisper carved her fate, she did not flinch. No tears. No pleas. Just that same quiet emptiness etched across her face. She looked less like a victim and more like someone who had already surrendered her life long ago.
I clenched my fists. My mind was torn apart between what was right and what was possible. The law demanded restraint, but my heart screamed rebellion. Could I really stand by and watch them trade her life for their safety? Could I let their fear dictate her worth?
I stood there, trapped between duty and action—between justice and survival. And for the first time, I wasn't sure which choice would damn me more.