After speaking of the past, Vansing and Vantias left the road to the capital behind and headed for a small, remote village — the place where Vantias's first mission would begin.
Vantias wore a robe black as midnight. His hair was a tangle, tossed by the wind like restless waves.
The sun sagged toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened, and the air grew cooler. The dirt road stretched ahead, swallowed by the creeping fog. Their footsteps crunched softly over the earth as they walked.
In Vantias's hand, a lantern swayed. Moths circled its light, and the distant croak of frogs carried on the evening air. The mist grew thicker, clinging to the road like a warning. Vansing walked beside him, silent.
Then Vansing broke the quiet.
"Before we get there, I should tell you about the mission," he said. "The target is a cult called the Blood Smile… a demonic order that's been around for years."
Vantias's brow furrowed.
*The same cult Hannibal told Anna and me about… but their purpose was never clear. Maybe Vansing knows more.*
"I've never heard of them," Vantias said aloud. "What's their goal?"
"It seems they aim to take control of the kingdom,"Vansing replied."They've committed plenty of dark acts — often without reason.
They're dangerous… so keep your guard up."
*So he doesn't know much either,* Vantias thought, *or maybe he doesn't want to say.*
"And why are we going to this village?" he asked.
"Three days ago, suspicious figures were seen near several villages," Vansing said gravely. "Around the same time, people began to vanish — several from each place. We believe the cult is behind it. This mission was given to me, and a few others, to investigate."
*Kidnapping villagers makes little sense… unless they're being used for something,* Vantias thought.
"Why would they take them?"
Vansing considered for a moment. "It could be for many reasons… but my guess? Necromancy. Or demon summoning."
The words lodged themselves in Vantias's mind. *Necromancy. Demon summoning.* They echoed like a curse. Whatever these people were, they had shed all traces of humanity.
Night finally claimed the sky. The colors of sunset faded, replaced by a black vault scattered with bright, cold stars. The moon hung full above them.
They walked in silence until a flare of light appeared in the distance. Vantias looked to Vansing for a reaction.
"Looks like fire… but why so large?"he murmured.
Vansing's jaw tightened. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "Put out the lantern. We approach unseen."
The lantern hissed out, and darkness wrapped around them. Step by careful step, they moved toward the light.
The closer they drew, the clearer the sounds became — laughter twisted with screams. Vantias's muscles tensed, but Vansing caught his arm.
"Observe first. Act later," he whispered.
They slipped between the trees, branches breaking softly underfoot. The night seemed to breathe against their skin, thick with mist. The sounds ahead spread like poison through the air.
They crouched behind a wall of bushes and looked out.
Vantias's eyes went wide. Vansing took an involuntary step back, then froze. Before them sprawled a nightmare — half ritual, half madness.
"No… it can't be…" Vansing breathed, his voice drowned by the shriek of a woman.
A man in a mask the color of blood, his robe shimmering like flame, dragged a young woman by the hair. She clawed and kicked, but his inhuman strength pulled her across the ground, stones cutting her skin. Blood streaked the dirt behind her.
Around the village square stood men and women in crimson robes. Their masks bore monstrous grins — mouths split ear to ear like gashes. The eyes were hollow black pits, empty of light.
They killed slowly, savoring every cry. Knives slid into flesh and withdrew with deliberate care, as if pain itself was the offering.
In the square's center, a great fire roared. The flames licked over charred timber, slaughtered cattle, and half-burnt corpses. Around it, the masked ones formed a circle, swaying in a rhythm that spoke of something ancient and forbidden.
Vantias felt his throat tighten — not from a physical grip, but from a primal fear, old as humanity itself. "These… aren't human," he whispered.
Elsewhere, the horror deepened. The masked figures bound young women and cut their throats with a slow, deliberate hand. Blood poured into silver-and-ebony chalices etched with demonic runes.
They drank. They laughed. Blood dripped from the rims like spilled wine.
And then the cups were brought to children. Small, trembling children with torn clothes and wide, broken eyes. A masked figure held a cup to a boy no older than nine and snarled:
"Drink. Drink your mother's blood!"
The boy screamed — a sound of madness, not pain.
In the center, the masked ones began drawing with blood upon the earth — an octagon, perfect in form, its lines sharp and exact. Inside, they wrote words that twisted the air itself, their voices a blend of growl and whisper.
The ground trembled. The air grew heavy. The fire surged higher. Shadows quivered like living things.
From the bushes, Vantias fought to keep from retching. His face was pale, his hands trembling.
"This," Vansing said softly,"is no mere sacrifice… it's a summoning."
And then a bell rang out — loud, vast, unnatural — as if the night itself were being torn open.