That was all he said.
Mirabelle lowered her gaze to the small knife in her hand. Then to the altar.
She hadn't been expecting this.
It felt... different from the religions she had known in her previous world.
Still, she chose not to question it.
Instead, she stepped closer to the altar.
She had no idea how much blood constituted an offering. Deciding that a small amount would surely suffice, she turned the blade toward her left palm.
The edge slid across her skin with astonishing ease. A faint sting followed a heartbeat later, almost delayed, before warmth began spreading across her palm.
She had barely applied any pressure before a thin crimson line appeared.
Drawing a slow breath, Mirabelle turned her hand over.
Then she gently pressed her bleeding palm against the smooth, pale surface of the ancient stone altar. It disappeared with a faint hiss, as though rain had fallen onto sun-warmed stone.
The stone drank her blood as though it had been dying of thirst.
