The wind on the plain of the abyss was different. It did not whistle through the forests, nor howl across the mountains. It dragged itself across the barren ground, heavy with dust and the sour stench of decay. The bare branches of the trees swayed only faintly, as if resisting movement.
Erian's feet, covered by the thin sandals of the ceremonial attire, sometimes stumbled over dry roots or loose stones.
The red ribbon binding his hands was his only anchor, he kept it taut between his fingers, as though he could hold on to it to keep from being torn away from the world.
The procession had reached the end of the path.
The steps that had echoed over the earth fell still, one by one. The crowd from the village had stayed behind, held back by fear.
No one crossed the invisible boundary that separated the land of the living from the cursed ground. Even so, their murmurs still reached Erian's ears.
The Bearer of the Scales was there as well. Erian could feel him, he didn't need to see to recognize that particular silence surrounding him. Since what had happened during the Rite of Soul Cleansing, the Bearer had not spoken a single word to him.
The three Bearers led Erian a few steps further, until the ground changed beneath his feet. The hard earth turned into smooth rock, and the echo of his steps told him there was nothing more ahead. The air grew colder and more open.
Erian knew he was standing at the very edge.
The place was uninhabited, but not empty. Scattered there were the remnants of all that had fallen before: bones among the dry undergrowth, broken feathers, the white skull of a forgotten animal. And scavengers. The crows and vultures waited in silence, wings folded.
"May the purity of his offering keep the cycle intact," intoned a priestess.
Erian said nothing. His voice was busy, inwardly, with another prayer. Silently, as always, he sought the God of Ruin.
Make of me whatever is Your will.
The priestesses began to recite the final prayer. Between each verse, the wind seemed to answer with a different murmur. The echo of their voices struck the invisible walls of the plain, as if the abyss itself returned them distorted.
"The flower is given," announced one of the priestesses, and the chorus repeated the phrase, sealing the ceremony like a final decree
Erian bowed his head. He felt he must, even if no one had ordered it. The veil covered the gesture, but his entire body spoke of acceptance. His fingers gripped the red ribbon once more.
The wind stopped for an instant. An absolute silence spread, as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for the exact moment of the offering. Even the scavenger birds ceased to move.
Then, without warning, hands seized him from behind. They were not the hands of the priestesses, whose grip he knew well, but a man's hands. A dry, sudden shove that gave Erian no time to tense his muscles or find his footing.
The edge vanished beneath his feet. The air closed around him, and the red ribbon slipped from his hands. The veil, once oppressive, billowed like a white sail. There were no screams, not even his own.
The abyss received Erian.