Sacrifice was not set on one thing. It could be anything: a bowl of rice, a woven garment, the life of a goat, a bundle of herbs, a blade once carried in battle. Whatever was given with intent and reverence did not remain in the mortal world.
It appeared here.
Keles had watched in fascination as objects materialized in the hands of long-departed souls. At first, they stared at the offerings in confusion. Then recognition dawned.
With recognition came memory. Each gift carried fragments of familial remembrance, restoring clouded identities. Faces solidified. Forgotten dialects returned to their tongues.
But that was not what intrigued Keles most.
It was what came after.
One day, a simple offering was made: a pouch of rice seeds.
It appeared in the palms of an ancestral matriarch within the clan's claimed territory. The seeds shimmered faintly, still warm from mortal hands. For a long moment, the souls simply regarded them.
