As dawn approached, a faint, milky light began to seep through the high, narrow windows. Colder air settled carrying a heavy, unspoken dread.
Priestess Ursula presented her with a simple white gown, finer than her own yet stark, unadorned. It was the garment of sacrifice.
"You must not resist," the priestess stated, her voice grave. "It will only anger him, and bring ruin to your people. Go with peace in your heart, if you can find it. For Thavenant."
But Chayene's heart was far from peaceful. Fear coiled within her, a tight knot, yet defiance shimmered there too.
She looked at her reflection in a polished bronze mirror—a young woman with wide eyes that held more than just terror. She was not a lamb. She would not go meekly to her doom.
The heavy doors to the temple creaked open, a blinding shaft of dawn light poured in. Outside, the square was filled with people, a silent, somber crowd.
Soldiers formed a protective cordon, keeping them back. She could feel their eyes on her, a mixture of pity, fear, and grim acceptance.
They were sacrificing her for their own survival. And in that moment, as the first rays of the rising sun touched the ancient stones of the temple, Chayene realized the truth.
She was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
***
The sun, a fiery orb climbing higher, beat down on Chayene's face as she was led from the temple. The crowd, a silent sea of faces, parted before her, their gazes settling on her.
She was still in the white gown, the garment of sacrifice, its thin fabric offering no comfort against the cool morning air or the chill of her own fear.
The procession was short, leading directly to the grand plaza before the Royal Palace, a place usually bustling with merchants and petitioners, now cleared and hushed.
At the center stood a grand altar, ancient, weathered, carved from dark, unyielding stone. It bore the same dragon motif as the temple, intertwined and menacing.
Veskiel, the colossal dragon, was not present. Only King Ulric himself, a stern, unsmiling figure in royal blue and gold, flanked by his highest advisors and the remaining Priests of Thavenant.
This, Chayene realized with a cold dread, was a ceremony of obligation, not of love. She was to be vowed to an absent groom, a one-sided promise made under duress.
High Priestess Ursula began the ritual, her voice echoing in the vast, open space. Her words were ancient, spoken in the Low Tongue, a language of power and binding.
Chayene stood before the altar, her hands clasped tight before her, a desperate attempt to still their trembling. She was forced to repeat certain phrases, vows of loyalty and servitude to Veskiel, each word a bitter taste on her tongue.
The crowd watched, breathless, their collective anxiety felt palpable . They needed this sacrifice, for their very survival.
When it was done, when the final incantation was spoken, King Ulric stepped forward, his eyes cold.
"The vow is made," he announced, his voice ringing through the plaza. "May Veskiel accept this offering and spare Thavenant for another year."
A collective sigh swept through the crowd, a release of tension. It was over, for them.
***
As dusk bled across the sky, painting the western horizon in streaks of bruised purple and faded orange, Chayene found herself marching again. No longer through the streets of Thavenant, but along a winding, arduous mountain path. The same soldiers from her home, silent and grim, flanked her.
The air grew thinner, colder, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Far below, the lights of the kingdom twinkled like scattered jewels, a reminder of what she was leaving behind, what she was sacrificing.
Hours passed in the grueling ascent. The stars, sharp and numerous in the clear mountain air, began to prick the inky blackness above.
Finally, the soldiers halted before a colossal, dark opening in the mountainside—a cave mouth, vast and foreboding. A cold draft, smelling faintly of ozone and something metallic, drifted from its depths.
"This is the place," the captain stated, his voice flat. He pointed a gloved hand into the darkness. "His lair. Where the tributes go."
Chayene's breath hitched. This was it. Not some formal offering in a plaza, but a descent into the unknown, into the maw of the earth.
She peered into the gloom, her eyes straining, but saw nothing but impenetrable shadow.
They led her inside the cave, the torchlight from the soldiers creating long, dancing shadows that stretched and twisted into monstrous forms. The ground underfoot was uneven, treacherous with loose stones that skittered beneath her feet.
The cave narrowed, winding deeper into the mountain's heart, until they reached a vast, circular cavern. The air was thick, heavy, and damp, giving her a shiver that raised goosebumps on her skin.
In the center of this cavern, was a gaping hole in the ground. It was impossibly deep, its edges jagged, and rough-hewn. The blackness within devoured the light, seeming to pulse with a cold, malevolent life of its own.
A strong, eerie wind, laden with the scent of damp, distant stone and an ancient, primal musk, rose from the depths. This wasn't a chamber, it was leading to an unknown gullet.
"To the edge," the captain commanded, his voice muffled by the cave's echoes.
Two soldiers seized Chayene's arms, their grip like iron vices. They dragged her forward, toward the abyss. Her bare feet scraped against the rough stone floor, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
She resisted, tugging, twisting, but her strength was nothing against theirs. Feeling the cold breath rising from the maw, she looked back, one last desperate glance at the impassive faces of the soldiers.
No pity. No remorse. Only duty.
Then, with a sudden, coordinated shove, they propelled her forward. Chayene stumbled, her feet losing purchase on the slippery edge.
A guttural cry tore from her throat, swallowed by the echoing darkness as she plummeted into the void.