The air in the Forest of Calm, despite its gentle name, was a living thing at night—a tapestry woven from the rustle of unseen creatures, the whisper of wind through ancient pines, and the low, constant hum of a life that had long preceded humanity. A small fire crackled in a clearing, its light casting a fragile circle of warmth against the impenetrable blackness. Two figures sat hunched by the flames, their faces a study in grim dissatisfaction as they tore at strips of dried meat.
"A waste of time," the first man grumbled, his voice a low, gravelly sound that seemed to chew on the words. He tossed a bone into the fire, where it sizzled and turned black. "All that talk from the Masked Sage, all that gold we spent on a ritual dagger and those ridiculous robes… for what? A boy's life, and nothing else to show for it."
His companion, a leaner man with a perpetually sneering face, poked at the fire with a stick. "You're telling me. 'During the hundred-year eclipse, a life must be sacrificed at the Altar of the Primordial God,' he said. 'The truth to the world and riches beyond your wildest dreams shall be yours.' What we got was the truth of how much of a fool I am." A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"And what did we hear at the altar? Not the rumbling of the earth or the voice of a god. Just the wails of that wretched boy, the sound of his body being dragged across the stone, and the dull thud of the knife."
He looked into the flames, the memory a clear, nauseating image in his mind. The boy, who had foolishly believed they were travelers seeking guidance, had trusted them. He remembered the boy's look of absolute shock and terror when the facade had dropped, a look that lingered in his mind like a phantom ache.
"We waited," the first man said, his voice now flat, devoid of the earlier anger. "We waited for the heavens to open, for the ground to split, for the treasure chests to appear at our feet. Nothing. Not a thing. Just silence. It wasn't a ritual, it was a hoax." He spat on the ground. "That so-called sage, I'll find him. When I do, he'll wish a hundred boys were sacrificed in his place."
The second man only nodded, his face illuminated by the dancing firelight, a mask of cold, hard disappointment. "A hundred years for nothing. We wasted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on a fairy tale."