Chapter Four: The Weight of the Cerythian Rite
Almond was dragged through the city gates, the cold grip of the enchanted bangles burning against his wrists. The two cloaked enforcers flanking him said nothing—only tightened their hold each time he staggered.
With every step, he replayed the hall's events in his mind.
The old man's voice still lingered:
"Why?"
He had wanted to ask… to scream that he didn't know. But as the word formed on his tongue, a surge of blinding light fractured across his vision—images flashing in and out of focus. A thousand shards of memory, piercing and chaotic.
Faces. Symbols. Blood.
The whisper of chanting.
The glow of a forbidden circle.
He couldn't make sense of it, but his heart remembered what his mind could not.
The name surfaced like a curse.
The Cerythian Rite.
A ritual never meant to be performed. A ceremony whispered only in secret, its existence punishable by death. Yet somehow, he and Jim had been there the previous night—standing on its very threshold.
Why they had done it, he didn't know.
Only that it was forbidden.
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The path led him to the city's edge, where the earth gave way to the entrance of a vast labyrinth. Its towering archways pulsed faintly with runes, as if alive, hungry. The air smelled of ash and iron.
Just beyond the gate, another scene awaited. Jim knelt upon a stone platform, chains digging into his flesh. His battered body trembled as an executioner restrained him, positioning his neck beneath a mechanical blade designed to sever with merciless precision.
Jim raised his head one final time, meeting Almond's gaze. His eyes were heavy with regret, but also resolve.
"I'm sorry, my friend," he whispered.
The blade dropped.
CHOP.
Jim's head tumbled into the basket below. Before it could rest, a pack of hounds burst forth, tearing into the remains with rabid ferocity. The air was filled with the sickening sound of bones snapping and flesh ripping.
Almond froze, horror rooting him to the spot.
A cold voice hissed from behind him:
"Move."
One of the assassin-like knights pressed a blade against his back, urging him toward the labyrinth where death—or something far worse—awaited.
And Almond walked.