Dawn came without color. Neither gold, nor pink, nor even the gray of other days. It was an opaque white, as if the sky were covered by a canvas. The air smelled of dampness and the smoke of bonfires that had burned out hours before.
Inside the small room where they kept him, Erian awoke without knowing if he had truly slept or merely floated between memories and prayers.
Once again, there were no words of greeting.
The priestesses entered as the tide always did, firm, inevitable, without a single gesture betraying emotion. Their steps echoed on the stone floor until they surrounded him. One of them bent down, took his arm, and forced him to sit up.
"It is time."
Erian obeyed without protest. He had learned that resisting prevented nothing; it only brought more hands to push or restrain him more forcefully.
He felt them remove the coarse clothing he had worn during the previous rituals. The morning air bit at his skin. Then, a new fabric wrapped around him: a light, white tunic, without visible seams.
The linen was cold at first, but soon warmed to his body. It was soft, softer than anything he had felt in a long time, as if the cloth had been washed again and again until it lost all roughness. There were no ornaments, no embroidery, no ribbons, only purity, or the idea of it. Over his shoulders, the fabric fell straight, brushing his feet.
Someone behind him placed a veil. It too was white, translucent for anyone who could see, but to Erian it was nothing more than a light weight on his forehead and the pressure of fabric covering his eyes.
Someone took his hands and wrapped them with a red ribbon. The knot tightened at his wrists, firm, but not enough to cut off circulation. The ribbon smelled of fresh ink, a metallic tang, as if it had been dyed with something more than pigment.
"The flower of dusk must be delivered intact," murmured one of the women, almost to herself, as though repeating a learned phrase.
Erian did not respond.
The world around him filled with sounds, the scrape of sandals on stone, the click of rosary beads, the dry tap of a staff on the ground.
The Bearer of the Scales was present. Erian knew it before hearing him. His scent of sweet oils and spiced wood seeped into the air like a bitter memory. Fortunately, the man did not approach. Had Erian been able to see, he would have realized the Bearer did not look at him either.
"Walk," the man said.
The priestesses guided him toward the door. Erian's fingers instinctively sought the red ribbon binding his hands, holding it as if it were a rope keeping him upright. And in silence, almost with every step, he repeated a prayer to the God of Ruin:
Make of me whatever is Your will. Not theirs. Yours.
The outside air struck his face. From somewhere higher, the sound of a bell rang out. Its chime rolled down the streets, filling every corner until voices began to rise, first as scattered murmurs, then as a steady hum.
The people had gathered.
Erian could feel their gazes like needles. The smell of bodies pressed together, of damp wool and bread, surrounded him. There were no shouts or cheers. The procession advanced in tense silence, broken only by the crunch of soles over the earth.
Someone in the crowd murmured his name. Not "flower of dusk," but Erian. A young voice, almost a sigh. It vanished before he could place it.
The steps went on. The streets stretched toward the edge of the village, where the land changed. There, stone paths gave way to a rough track covered in dust and thorns. The smell of smoke turned to a dry scent, of waterless earth and dead wood.
Erian's foot stumbled once on a root, and he felt a priestess's hand steady him to prevent a fall. Not out of compassion, only because the offering could not arrive damaged.
The murmur of the crowd began to fade.
I am here.
Erian didn't know if it was his own thought or the invisible whisper of the God of Ruin. All he knew was that his breathing slowed, as if an immense hand had encircled him.
The ground grew steeper. The stones beneath his sandals were warm, and the wind blew from ahead, bringing with it the smell of iron and something older, like bones bleached in the sun.
The abyss was near.
Erian knew before they told him. One of the priestesses gripped his arm more tightly. Another sound joined in, low and harsh: the cawing of crows or carrion birds circling above.
The stench of rot came next, along with the echo of wind crashing against an open void.
"Stop."
Erian could imagine the expanse before him: an uninhabited land, with dry trees rising like twisted fingers, rocks coated in gray lichen, and at the bottom, the shadow of what had swallowed too many lives. The abyss.
He drew a deep breath. The red ribbon around his hands seemed to throb.
Make of me whatever is Your will. If I must fall, let it be into Your hands.
The wind blew harder, lifting the edges of his tunic and fluttering the veil. The caws grew louder. The stench of the abyss enveloped him, and for a moment, he swore he felt something watching from below.
It was not human.
It was not animal.
I am here, repeated the voice that was not a voice.