Erian had fallen asleep without realizing it. Exhaustion had overtaken him against his will, somewhere between sadness and resignation.
He didn't know how much time had passed when a firm hand shook him by the shoulder. The voice of a priestess told him it was time to begin the first rite.
Two other priestesses helped him to his feet. They asked no questions and offered no comfort. They simply guided him through the corridors until they reached a wooden door that opened with a dry creak.
The cell was smaller than the previous one, with neither bed nor window. It was cold, damp, and silent. The air smelled of incense and moisture. There was nothing but a worn tapestry spread on the floor, right in the center.
The priestesses pushed him gently toward the center of the cell, took him by the arms, and forced him to kneel on the worn tapestry, with his hands resting on his thighs and his back straight.
"You will remain here," said one of them. "You will not be allowed to sleep, eat, or drink for a day and a night."
"You must silence your body," added another, "so that you may hear the voice of Grace."
"This is the Rite of Fasting and Vigil," concluded the first, "the beginning of the path toward sacrifice."
Then they left, closing the door behind them with a sharp sound that echoed against the walls.
For endless hours, Erian stayed in the same position. At first, he listened to whatever sounds were within reach: dripping water, the creak of wood, the rasp of his nails against his bare palms. But with time, even those sounds vanished. Only his breathing remained.
Hunger came to him quickly. Then thirst. Fatigue followed close behind, disguised as heaviness in his eyelids.
The priestesses appeared from time to time in silence, opening small slits in the door to ensure he was awake. If his head drooped, they would wake him. Once, they threw cold water on his face. On another occasion, they struck him on the cheek until it bled.
"Do not close your eyes," they warned him. "Your eyes must remain open if you wish the God of Ruin to deem you worthy."
By nightfall, Erian no longer knew if he was awake or merely dreaming of being awake. His throat was dry, his stomach burned, his body trembled with involuntary spasms, and his knees bled from the constant pressure against the stone.
He thought of Nalia, her bright laughter, her small hands clutching his.
He thought of Malric, of the warmth of his embrace and the weight of the kiss he had not wanted to receive.
He thought that perhaps he was already dying, and that all those memories were simply the last things he had left before fading away entirely.
Then he remembered the candied apple he had kept for his sister but never gave to her. With trembling hands, he searched through the folds of his tunic until he found it, still wrapped in cloth.
Holding it, he sensed the faint sweetness clinging to his fingers, and a pang of longing crossed his empty stomach. He brought it to his lips, so close he could almost taste it.
He was about to take a bite, but then he remembered, this fast was part of the ritual, part of the offering. If he didn't do it right, if he didn't complete every step, the God of Ruin might reject him. And Nalia could pay the price…
Erian lowered the apple, his heart pounding with desperation. Tears began to fall without warning. He knew that if he ate it, his stomach would be filled, his body relieved a little, but it would not change the ending.
He would die in a few days.
He leaned forward until his forehead touched the cold floor, the apple still in his hands, and sobbed.
"What should I do…?" he whispered. "Please… God of Ruin, tell me what to do. I have no strength left to fight. I can't go on… I want to die…"
***
The ground that had once burned with life now crunched beneath Seirion's steps. There were no bird songs, no whispers of leaves, only the howl of the wind, sweeping along dust and bones. And among the bare trees moved scavenger creatures: gaunt wolves with sunken eyes, featherless crows, insects gnawing at withered corpses.
Seirion's amber eyes were fixed on a small patch of green growing at the foot of his temple's steps. A small patch of grass, just a breath of life in the midst of desolation.
It was so small, so fragile.
He stopped at a respectful distance from the sprout, as if getting too close might steal its life away.
Seirion couldn't remember the last time he had seen something like that grow near his temple. But there had definitely been a time when those lands were green, when the forest sang with the murmur of rivers and the songs of birds filled the silence.
A time when the meadows around his steps were covered in wild lilies. When children laughed under the shade of trees and priestesses walked barefoot on damp grass at dawn.
That sprout was not only life. It was a memory. And a mirror of everything Seirion had lost.
And yet, Seirion looked at it with love.
"Is it you?" he whispered to the wind, not expecting an answer.
Ever since that prayer had reached him, Seirion had not stopped thinking of the human who had spoken it. He did not know his face or his name, but his distorted voice had etched itself into his mind.
And since then, although the temple remained in ruins and the land around it stayed dry, the atmosphere had changed.
It was as if a presence had settled in some corner of the temple, silent but persistent.
Seirion didn't know who that human was, but thanks to his prayer, for the first time in centuries, he did not feel quite so alone.
And then, it happened again.
The temple's runes glowed with a soft light, and along with that light… came a sound.
A cry.
It was the human who was crying.
Seirion returned to the temple at once. He slipped between the columns, and when he reached the center of the hall, he placed a hand on one of them. Closing his eyes, he listened.
It was as if the words came from the bottom of a pond: blurry, distorted, so faint he could barely make them out.
Seirion frowned, frustrated.
"I can't understand you…" he whispered, his fingers trembling against the stone.
And if he couldn't understand even a single word… how could he help him?
Seirion longed to answer, but if he couldn't hear clearly, if the human's words remained drowned under that veil of water, there would be no way to reach him.
No way to protect him or comfort him.
And then, an idea came to him.
Perhaps the boy's voice wasn't yet strong enough to break the wall between them.
But if Seirion sent him a sign, one that would strengthen his faith, then the next time the human called to him, he might hear him.
Seirion knelt before the altar and extended his hand over the cracked stone. He closed his eyes. For a moment, only the whisper of the wind among the temple columns could be heard. Then, with a held breath, he raised his other hand and dragged his nails across his own palm.
The flesh opened without resistance.
Thick, dark blood, like ink, spilled onto the altar.
Each drop hissed as it touched the stone. The runes carved into the altar's cracks began to burn with a dim light.
Seirion kept his hand open, letting his offering flow.
"May this sign reach you," he murmured solemnly. "May your soul know that I heard you."
He didn't know if it would be enough. He didn't know if the boy's faith could survive so much pain. But if his blood could at least open a bridge between their voices, then he would do it. He would do it a thousand times.
Because something in him told him that prayer was unlike the others. And that human was unlike the others as well.
***
Erian was still kneeling, his forehead pressed to the floor, the apple trembling in his own hand. His sobs closed his throat, his shoulders shaking with each one. His stomach was empty, his body at its limit, and his heart broken.
Then, a shiver ran down his back.
He lifted his head slowly. The air was still silent, but something had changed. He caught, faint at first but growing clearer, the unmistakable scent of lilies, sweet, fresh, and warm.
His breath stopped. Fear was replaced by a strange comfort.
Small hands, soft and warm, cupped his face. Tiny hands that caressed him with tenderness… as if his sister were there.
"Nalia…?" he whispered, not daring to move.
"Don't cry," said the little voice, sweet and clear. "Everything will be fine, Eri."
He reached out, trying to embrace her, but found only air.
"You must eat…" the girl whispered. "If you don't eat, you won't grow healthy and strong. You won't be able to take care of me."
Like a dream, the presence began to fade. The scent of lilies thinned in the air, and the warmth left his skin.
"Nalia…" he murmured.
And he cried again.
He didn't question whether what he had just experienced was a hallucination brought on by fasting, fever, or desperation. He didn't care if it had been real or not. Because in that moment, he needed that comfort.
Without thinking further, Erian brought the apple to his mouth.
He took a large, urgent bite. The caramel sweetness burst on his tongue, mingled with his tears. He ate quickly, with trembling hands, before another priestess might appear.
When he finished, he let the stick fall to the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
And for the first time, in a very, very long time… Erian allowed himself a small hope.
Perhaps the God of Ruin truly was listening.