Vencian stayed still, pressed against the rock. The words echoed faintly from the chamber ahead. Foreigners. That means us. He could hear two voices now, one tense and the other cautious.

"The foreigners that came yesterday," the first man said again, "they don't look like a good sign for the festival."

Another voice answered, deeper and strained. "Elder Barath's nephew, what do you think?"

There was a pause before the reply came. "I can't say for certain," the man said. "But that woman came asking too many questions." His voice carried unease. "Maybe she suspects."

The air filled with soft murmurs. A third person asked, "Should we start early?"

"Yes," the man called Harin said firmly. "The appointed hour begins in two hours and will last twelve. My son and I will perform the ritual this time. My granduncle— the Seer is ill."

Vencian leaned his shoulder against the wall. Four voices, maybe five. The faint scrape of sandals against stone confirmed it.

A woman's voice spoke first. "The air feels wrong near the shrine. Did everyone come through the same passage?"

Someone answered her, "We came from the north passage."

Another added, "We entered from the east. The shrine connects both."

"Then close the other one," Harin said. "We can't leave it open."

Two of them exchanged short words, their voices moving toward Vencian's direction. "We haven't closed it yet," one of them said.

"You were supposed to," Harin snapped. "Go now before someone wanders in."

The first man muttered an apology and started walking closer. The rest of the group moved in separate directions. Harin asked someone to fetch the lesser offerings. The word 'shrine' followed soon after. So there's a shrine down there.

Vencian drew back into a narrow recess in the wall as footsteps approached. The man came into view, holding a small lantern. He was middle aged, lean, and a few inches shorter than Vencian. His clothes were simple, the kind of servant's garb found in remote villages.

When he reached the entrance, Vencian moved. His arm hooked around the man's neck in a tight pull. The man tried to speak, but Vencian covered his mouth. It took only a few seconds before the body went limp.

He lowered him quietly to the ground. Sorry, but I need your face more than you do right now.

He dragged the man behind the nearest slab of rock, out of view. Then he knelt, closing his eyes for a second.

An illusionary layer replaced his usual appearance, giving him a slimmer frame and a darker complexion.

When it ended, he looked down at his hands. They were thinner, veins visible under rough skin. He ran his fingers over his face—short stubble, scar near the jawline. Of course he couldn't feel it. His clothes had changed into the same plain shirt and vest.

He exhaled once. Middle-aged, lean, servant type. Should blend in easily.

He took the lantern from the ground and adjusted the grip to mimic the man's habit. Then, without another glance at the unconscious body, he walked toward the tunnel where the others had gone.

The path descended deeper underground. The echo of the others' voices grew fainter. Harin's tone carried forward through the tunnels, discussing the ritual and the shrine.

Vencian tightened his hold on the lantern and kept walking. Let's see what kind of ritual needs secrecy and a cave.

Vencian went deeper down the path the others had taken. The tunnel twisted before opening into a wider space. He blended into the small group without drawing notice, keeping his posture relaxed. The air smelled of rotted flowers and damp stone. The floor was uneven, though a narrow channel along the side carried thin streams of water toward a pit.

He counted four people ahead. Harin stood near the center beside a younger man who resembled him—his son, most likely. A woman held a small jar at the edge of the pit. The last figure arranged bundles of dried leaves near the wall.

What struck Vencian was not the people. He didn't know them, nor did they seem remarkable. It was what hung above the pit that made his breath pause. Suspended by ropes and thin steel rods was the body of a little girl. Her skin was covered in red powder until her hair was no longer visible.

She was still breathing—the faint movement of her nose gave her away. Beneath her stood a large object shaped like a chalice, its mouth ringed with triangular teeth.

This isn't a ritual. It's slaughter.

Footsteps came from behind. The man who had left earlier returned with a heavy bag. He nodded toward Harin. Harin gave him a brief look, then turned to the others.

"Let's begin," Harin said. "We cannot waste time."

The man opened the bag and removed a small bowl of ashen powder. He crouched and began to draw a pattern around the chalice. His hands moved fast, precise. Vencian watched closely.

The design was intricate, strange, yet a small section near the lower edge caught his attention.

That symbol. It's almost the same as in Roselys's thesis. He felt a flicker of recognition, though the rest of the pattern looked different. Coincidence or corruption?

Before he could think further, Harin straightened and said, "Ostik, do the deed."

Vencian's head turned. The others were looking at him. For a second, his mind blanked. Ostik? Oh. The face he wore belonged to that name.

He forced his voice to sound uncertain. "What kind of deed?"

The woman frowned. "What else? You're the butcher here."

Harin's son added impatiently, "Kill the girl. Spill her blood into the chalice."

The man with the bag took out a sword wrapped in cloth and handed it to him. "Here. It's been cleaned."

Vencian accepted the weapon, his mind buzzing. The metal felt cold in his palm. So that's their devotion. Killing a child for an omen. He looked up toward the hanging figure. The girl's chest still moved faintly. Alive.

He tightened his grip on the sword, jaw set. If I move now, I can end this before they react.

He shifted one foot forward, readying himself. But before he could act, a voice cut through the cavern.

"So this is what passes for devotion here. Counting blood as prayer."

The tone was sharp, laced with contempt and something like mockery. Vencian knew that voice at once.

Roselys.

Everyone turned toward the voice. Harin froze mid-step, his son's hand tightening on the rim of the chalice. Even Vencian felt his grip shift on the sword. Roselys. What is she doing here?

She stepped into the chamber, her expression unreadable. Harin's voice broke the silence first.

"You should not be here, woman. Leave before you bring misfortune on yourself."

Roselys tilted her head slightly. "That word again. Misfortune. You speak it like it means guilt." Her tone carried quiet contempt.

Harin's face darkened. "You do not understand what is happening here."

"Enlighten me," she said. "So far, I only see a frightened old man and his people trying to mask murder with faith."

The woman beside Harin hissed under her breath. "Blasphemy."

Vencian remained still, still wearing Ostik's face. If I move wrong, she'll think I'm one of them. He kept to the shadows, eyes darting between her and the others.

Harin stepped closer to the circle. "This is for the village's survival. The curse must be lifted, or the prophecy will never be fulfilled. We can never be free." His words carried something like fear hidden beneath the anger.

"The curse," Roselys repeated, voice edged. "You mean the story you use to justify this blood pit."

His son shouted back, "You speak without knowing. The last time the ritual was delayed, the river dried for a season."

The woman joined him. "The signs repeat. The seer foretold it. Blood is needed to keep the balance. Or we will never be freed from that damned curse."

Roselys's patience thinned. "Balance? You sacrifice a child to keep yourselves comfortable. That isn't balance. That's cowardice."

Vencian caught movement in the corner of his eye. The chalice. A faint clatter came from within it, like metal striking stone. A chill ran through him. Did that thing move? He turned slightly toward it. The surface of the teeth seemed to tremble. The air above it rippled faintly.

He wanted to look longer, but the argument in front of him grew louder. Harin raised his voice. "You don't understand. None of you outsiders understand what happens when it wakes."

"What wakes?" Roselys demanded.

He only glared. "You will see soon enough if you keep meddling."

Vencian's unease sharpened. There's something alive in that thing. His fingers twitched against the hilt of the sword.

Roselys stepped forward, her patience gone. "Enough of this. You hide behind myths to excuse cruelty." She moved toward the circle Harin had drawn.

Vencian's pulse spiked. The noise from the chalice grew faintly louder. Something's wrong. Before he could think, his body moved. He crossed the space in two strides and caught her hand.

"Wait," he said.

But as his boot crossed the chalk line, something cut through the air. He felt a sharp pain across his side, like a blade scraping skin. Blood splashed the floor.

The chalice shuddered and opened wider. A circular shape formed above it, a spinning void that pulled the air inward. The drawn symbols glowed, lines breaking apart.

A force surged from the ground, pulling everything that stood in the patterned circle. Vencian grabbed Roselys's arm, but the pull grew stronger. The ropes above snapped, and the little girl's body fell toward them.

The world blurred. The sound of stone and shouting twisted together. Everything went dark.

When the light faded from the chamber, the space they had stood in was empty.

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